


The Bodyguard

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst, Break Up, Community: reel_merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Endangerment, M/M, Mutual Pining, Older Arthur, Pining, Sexual Tension, Smut, Stalking, Starting Over, some homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 59,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>U.S military veteran Arthur Pendragon is looking for a change when his sister convinces him to take on a new job. His new client, a Londoner Merlin Emrys is fresh to Tinseltown. He's “magic”, the world says, but his steep rise to fame is not without serious challenges.</i><br/>With so many people vying for Merlin's talent and attention, threats to the star magician multiply. It’s up to Arthur to keep Merlin safe; and Arthur finds that his heart is in the job—maybe a little too much.<br/><br/>A Bodyguard/AU Merlin fusion, written for Reel Merlin.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are references to The Bodyguard (1992) movie. Plot followed very loosely. I have incorporated some details and bits of original dialogue into the story since it's a reel after all. But I've certainly tried to give it a twist, hopefully making it mine. The events are all based in America. I had no britpicker for Merlin and his family. Forgive me.
> 
> Many many thanks to my wonderful friends who helped to beta through this story and held me when I didn't think I could finish it. M, you are my pillar of strength. Candy, you literally pulled me through the finish line, with your teeth. Thank you for believing in me!  
> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> My undying gratitude to  [Candymacaron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron) for the banner of the story! You're absolutely amazing. Thank you!

**  
**

********  
**  


Weekly dinners with Morgana have become the bane of Arthur's existence.

He rubs his forehead while waving off the waiter's offering of more bread in a basket. His shoulder aches. Today, it's especially bothering him. He tries to ignore the dull pain, having accepted it as part of his life at this point.

"Morgana, I am not having this conversation with you. Again."

For the past month, he's been trying to dodge what has become a weekly ritual of torture, in the form of the overbearing, irritating behavior of his younger sister. Nothing has worked so far and it stresses Arthur out. Morgana's worse than any of Arthur's drill sergeants -- and he'd had a fair share of them in his long career in Forces before its abrupt interruption. He clenches and unclenches his hand to pump some blood into his numbing fingers and resists the urge to start rubbing his shoulder. If Morgana catches even a hint of discomfort in Arthur, he will not get her off his back for eternity.

"Arthur, please." Morgana wears her most pleading, compelling expression. It would work on her boyfriend Gwaine, no doubt, but Arthur likes to believe he's grown immune to her voodoo powers of bewitchery. "You're thirty-five years old. You were seriously wounded eight months ago. You can't possibly be thinking about going back again.”

" _Thirty-four_ ," he corrects her, actually feeling more like a petulant thirteen-year-old. Morgana always brings the worst in him. “And I’m in great shape.” Maybe not for combat missions, but that’s not for Morgana to decide.

She sighs. “Knowing your tenacity, you might pass your physical once again. But what then? You’ll go back to active duty, get sent in somewhere extreme, again. Are you sure it's the right thing to do? Arthur, this is..." She pauses before choosing the next word while Arthur is glowering at her. "...unwise. Please, it’s time to think of your other career options."

Arthur closes his eyes briefly. “And what are they? Find myself a warm spot to settle in? Become a pencil pusher?"  

“No,” Morgana agrees. “But what if you don't pass your physical? What choices will you have left?” She sighs. “You know there are other reasons it’s best for you to move on with your life. You’re not actually living it to the fullest, are you?”

Arthur knows well what Morgana’s implying, and it’s really none of her business, but his sister has a point he himself has considered many times over.

"What do you suggest I do?” he asks against his better judgement, because he'd never accept his little sister's advice. He can't let her think she has all the answers.

She still acts like she does. “You've been offered an honorable discharge. Take it, " she says firmly, and before he objects, she raises her hand to stop him and she reaches for her clutch purse on the table. "You've done enough, Arthur. No one would question your decision."

Arthur inhales sharply. The dull ache in his shoulder spreads into a full-blown headache. “And then what?” he asks through his teeth.

"And then, you'll find a suitable compromise."

"Like?"

"You’re an exceptionally trained, physically-capable professional with experience in Special Ops. There's a hot market for people like you. Here," She hands Arthur a white business card. "Call this number, ask for Kilgharrah Dragoy."

Arthur isn't even surprised; of course Morgana has a solution already. He studies the textured but otherwise very plain-looking card with a simple slogan _No tricks. Just magic_ and a handwritten phone number with an area code he doesn't recognize.  "Who is he?" he asks.

"Father's old acquaintance."  

“How do you know him?” Arthur asks.

Morgana stares at him for a moment, incredulity in her gaze. “You really have been out of touch, brother,” she finally says. “While you’ve been away -- for a decade and a half -- I’ve worked for our father. I took over his business when he retired, remember?”

It’s true. Arthur wanted no part in the Uther Pendragon Media empire and Morgana had to step into big shoes.

Arthur pockets the card. “Fine, I’ll call your Kili… whatever.” And seeing a triumphant glint in Morgana’s green eyes, immediately asks, “What will be the job?”

“A magician’s assistant,” Morgana deadpans. “You know: sequin corset, bunny ears, toothy smile. Think you can handle that?”

Arthur takes a long sip from his water and places the glass back on the table. He also inwardly counts to ten. Folding his arms on his chest, he leans against the back of his chair, finding a comfortable position. He can play this game.

Morgana is a worthy opponent. While looking at him, she slowly cuts a small piece of her chicken, spends forever to take the bite, and gives it a meticulous chew while humming and nodding in appreciation. What a shrew.

Arthur checks his watch and raises his finger to call the waiter’s attention.

“Fine.” Morgana places her fork down. “I wanted Kilgharrah to tell you, but maybe it’s for the best if I do. Just…” She takes a deep breath and leans forward. “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Morgana,” Arthur warns.

“Kilgharrah is the head of a large talent agency. One of his clients is having some troubles with…” It’s not often that Morgana struggles for words. “Basically, the client needs protection, someone experienced to look after him.”

Arthur frowns. “You are aware I am not a babysitter, Morgana, right?”

Morgana makes an exasperated sound. “That’s not what they're looking for.”

Arthur tilts his head to the side. “So, if you don’t want me to turn into someone’s watchdog, then what is it?”

“Well,” Morgana says. “You’ll still be a security officer, but employed by a well-respected, private agency. You’ll be carrying a registered weapon -- several, if you must -- and watching out for bad guys. Just like you do now.”

“Except,” Arthur snips, “instead of defending my country, I’ll be wiping snot off some celebrity.”

“How do you figure it’s a celebrity?” Morgana asks with a small smile on her lips.

Arthur snorts. “Didn't you mention a talent agency? Besides, I’m too good to be a guard to anyone less than uber-famous and you're too vain to let your brother be involved in anything you deem trivial, if you can help it.”

Morgana flashes a less restrained smile, relaxing in her seat. “Does it mean you’ll do it?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Why is this important to you? If it's one of your PR tricks for the company, I swear to God, Morgana.”

“No, Arthur. No,” she starts to protest.

“Tell me why and I’ll think about it,” Arthur says.

Morgana grins, reaching for him across the table. “Oh, Arthur, I’m so gl--”

Arthur leans away from her touch. “I said I’ll think about it. I haven’t said yes yet. Now... Why?”

Morgana’s entire expression dims. She rubs her wrist. “Gaius asked me. He's old friends with Kilgharrah, like our father. Gaius never calls in for favors, and this time he did, not even for himself. You know I can’t say no to Gaius.”

Gaius is their old family friend and physician. He was there a year and a half ago when their father had a stroke. If it wasn’t for his assistance and connections, Arthur doesn’t know if Father would be alive today.

“I know, he was very supportive of you then.”

“I was falling apart, Arthur, truly lost,” Morgana says, biting her lip. “He was the only one who was there for me and Dad. I owe it to him. We both do.”

Arthur wishes he felt less guilt over the fact that he couldn't be there for his family when they needed him most.

“Yes, I know.” Arthur nods at the waiter who’s placing the bill in front of him. He pauses with the pen mid-air, looking at Morgana. “I know it was bad. I’m sorry.”

“There was no contact with you for a while,” Morgana recalls. “And when you came home…” She’s not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “You needed to recover.”

“I was well enough,” Arthur objects, although they both know how untrue it is.

“Right.” Morgana doesn’t hide her exasperation in her tone.

Arthur rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand. His voice is low when he speaks again. “All right. I understand. I need to think about it and figure things out.” He looks up at her. “Can I have a little time?”

Morgana’s warm hand covers Arthur’s. “I love you, brother.”

Arthur is not sure he deserves it.

******

It takes Arthur a month before he gets everything in order and finally picks up the phone.

Mr. Kilgharrah Dragoy is older than Arthur expects, with long, smoky-gray hair in a ponytail and a slight hunch to his back when he walks towards Arthur. But his handshake is firm, his dark eyes are sharp when he gives Arthur a quick once-over, and he has the most bushy, expressive eyebrows imaginable. His eyebrows tell Arthur he will be judged hard if god forbid he does something not according to their owner’s expectations. Arthur finds himself a little out of his depth.

“Shall we?” Kilgharrah points his gnarly finger to the farthest table of the fancy Italian bistro they’re meeting at. He makes a complicated gesture with his hand at the hostess and it appears that’s all that’s needed to situate them both right away.

An expensive bottle of sparkling water is served without asking. The wine glasses disappear from the table. Arthur guesses they won’t be having wine with their lunch today, and that Mr. Dragoy is a frequent and valued customer. Out of years of hard habit, Arthur reaches down to straighten his jacket, and stops himself. As of last week, he’s not on active duty anymore. The ink has barely dried on his discharge papers and he already misses the structure, the adrenaline, the true _esprit de corps_ , unique to the job.

“Arthur,” Mr. Dragoy says, his tone warmer. “I hope you’re not planning to stand the entire time we’re talking. Please take a seat.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at himself inwardly and spares a slight smile at the old man. “No, of course not.” He nods when the waiter lifts the bottle and looks at Arthur.

“Two slices of lemon, and please take these plates and silverware,” Kilgharrah tells the server, waving dismissively at their cutlery.

There's no indication what could be possibly wrong with them, but Arthur wouldn’t dare to wonder. A second later, he gets the answer anyway.

A stack of papers is placed by Kilgharrah’s firm hand on the empty spot in front of Arthur. “Without much ado, here’s the contract.” He places a pen on top of it. “I will need your signature here… here… and here…”

Arthur doesn’t touch the pen, nor does he look at the papers. He pushes his chair out. “Mr. Dragoy, I’m not sure what my sister or Gaius have told you, but I haven’t agreed to your agency’s employment.”

Mr. Dragoy gives him a smile full of crooked, yellow -- and, for sure, all his own -- teeth. “I’m trying to change that.”

“Not so fast,” Arthur says.

“I used to know your father, Arthur, and I have to say you sure drive a hard bargain, just like him,” Mr. Dragoy says with a shake of his head, and, crossing out something on the contract, writes something else instead. “Here, I just upped your weekly salary by five hundred.”

Arthur stares at him without blinking.

Kilgharrah sighs. “Fine. Seven hundred. And you can use the agency’s cars when it tickles your fancy.”

Arthur presses his lips together.

“You want me to up it by a thousand dollars a week?” Mr. Dragoy’s bushy brows signal his utmost displeasure. “We need help, and you come with most excellent references, but we’re not _that_ desperate. Although, I must say -- like father, like son.”

“Leave my father out of it. I am not my father.” The words are out of Arthur’s mouth before he can stop them. He sighs and rubs his neck. “Look, Mr. Dragoy, I didn’t come here to bargain. Although…” He glances at the numbers Kilgharrah had written in the contract. “You will have to double it before I’d even consider the job.”

“We offer excellent health and dental plans,” Mr. Dragoy says, fixing his cufflink.

 _I would've never guessed_ , Arthur decides not to say. “Still, all that is secondary in helping my decision. I first would like to hear from you what happened to the last security firm you used and why you think you need a specially trained army officer to protect this particular client?”

Kilgharrah grins, and this is the first genuine expression Arthur has seen on him. “Well, Mr. Pendragon, now we’re talking.” He picks up the contract and rolls it up. “You’re right. You are not your father, but I find that -- forgive me for saying -- rather refreshing.”

Arthur is still unsure whether it’s a compliment.

“Tell you what.” Mr. Dragoy slaps his palm on the table. The glasses and the bottle of water jump with a clink. Arthur’s right hand jerks to his hip and then he relaxes, which doesn’t seem to escape Mr. Dragoy’s attention. A small, smug smile twitches on his thin lips. With an approving, dry click of his tongue, the old man pours more water into his already almost-full glass, then looks around. “What does it take to bring a few lousy slices of lemon here?”

Arthur clears his throat loudly.

“Ah, yes, I was saying.” Mr. Dragoy sets his eyes on Arthur again. “How about you visit my client and his quarters tomorrow? Meet him in person, scope the situation out? We’ll talk contract after that.”

Arthur mulls it over. “That sounds reasonable. Until then, I give no promises.”

Kilgharrah raises his hands. “None expected. But I do hope you'll consider this opportunity seriously.”

“I always consider my opportunities seriously,” Arthur says, setting his jaw.

Kilgharrah smiles, rising to his feet and offering his hand. “Then I have no worries. My assistant Elena will call you with the address. I hope you have a nice rest of the day.”

Arthur nods, although something tells him that this is the last quiet afternoon he’ll have for a while.

 

*******

The estate itself, located in Hollywood Heights, is well-secluded, surrounded by a tall, thick wall. Taking his shades off, Arthur gets out of his car and walks up to the iron gates guarding the property of his possibly future client.  He peeks through the dense ivy covering the gates, seeing a wide cobblestone road encased by bushes and trees and leading to a three-story brick house ahead, where several cars are parked in front of a well-groomed lawn and a small fountain. Squealing and splashing sounds are coming from somewhere behind the building. Must be from the pool. Curtains twitch on the second floor, showing signs of life inside the house. Otherwise, not a single person appears to be present anywhere on the property.

Arthur rattles the gates a little, finding them locked. Well, that’s not bad news... considering. He walks to the call-intercom that sits askew on a shaky pole, one lonely button on the box. What is this? The nineteen-eighties? He presses the button and the intercom issues a grumpy, incoherent hissing. Arthur waits and buzzes in once more. The box sputters something more intelligible this time, resembling a, “… how is this…ally works. Hello?”

“This is Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur articulates. “By invitation from Mr. Dragoy. To meet Mr. Emrys.”

“What?” the voice asks through static. "Who?"

Arthur pauses for a moment, tapping his fingers on the hood of his Chevy Traverse.

“I’m from a dance studio teaching Gavotte,” he says directly into the comm, “here for the pool party.”

As a response, he hears more static from the comm and a bored, “Yeah, all right.”

The gates slowly open, making an unpleasant squeaky sound in the process. Putting his shades back on, Arthur goes back into his truck and drives towards the house.

He finally spots life in the form of two men in green overalls hacking away at the ground behind the bushes. They don’t even turn their heads when Arthur rolls up. No one stops or questions him on his way to the front door of the house. No one here shows a sign of concern or uneasiness at the sight of a stranger. Arthur is almost relieved when someone calls, “Hello?” as he raises his hand to ring the bell.

Arthur turns around. A man, about six feet tall, in his early twenties, with friendly eyes and an attractive smile, greets Arthur.

“May I help you?” the man asks, a slight frown appearing between his brows, but he doesn't lose his smile. He’s holding a dirty rag in his grease-stained fingers, his wrists and thumbs bandaged.

Arthur winces in sympathy. “Hello,” he says. “Yes. My name is…” He pauses and asks, “What happened to your hands?”

The man’s smile falters and he glances down. “Oh. Yeah. There was a… an incident.”

"On the job?" Arthur asks and figures out the answer as he watches the young man crumple the rag in his hands even before he nods.

“I see. Looks like something not too pleasant. I'm sorry.”

The man shrugs. “Eh. It's mostly healed. Just protecting it from the sun. Gwen helped to manage the pain and Gaius has this amazing salve...” He stops. “Errr… I'm sorry, and you are?... What’s the nature of your visit?”

Arthur looks at him with utmost sincerity. “My name’s Adam Poehler. I have an appointment. What’s your name?”

The guy scratches his short, springy hair. “I… I'm Elyan. I’m the driver here.” His frown deepens. “Who are you meeting with?”

Arthur smiles. He’s starting to like this Elyan guy. “Mr. Dragoy.”

“Oh. Okay." Elyan relaxes instantly and gestures at the house. "Go right ahead, then. They should all be in the back.”

Arthur nods and rings the entrance door bell. As he does, he turns around. “Hey, Elyan?”

The guy stops in his tracks, looking at Arthur expectantly. “Yeah?”

“Next time, when you see a stranger, ask for their ID. Always ask for ID. Got it?”

Elyan’s smile wilts considerably. “Uh. Yes.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “May I see yours, then?”

Arthur hums his approval. “Sure can.” He takes out and holds up his ID.

Elyan comes closer, his eyes narrowing at the print. He raises his brows at Arthur. “Wait a minute. You’re not…” He pokes the ID. “You’re not Adam Poehler. It says you’re Arthur Pendragon. It’s not even close.”

Arthur smirks. “The initials match.”

“But…” Elyan looks genuinely upset. “Why did you…”

Arthur returns his ID into his pocket. “What will you do when you see a stranger on the property next time, Elyan?”

“Uh…” Elyan rubs his nose, leaving a grease streak on it. “Ask for ID?”

Arthur nods. “Correct. And what else will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Elyan struggles. “Escort them into the house personally?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You call security. Let them decide whether to escort the guest inside or off the property.”

“Right, security. Which we currently don’t… I mean, there's Percy, but he's not...” Elyan starts mumbling, looks at Arthur with wide eyes, and practically salutes. “Security. Yes, sir.”

Arthur clamps Elyan’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I know you’ve got none at the moment."

Elyan lets out a breath. "Oh, okay."

Arthur rings the bell again, getting more silence in return. He knocks and to his amusement, the door just opens with no one behind it.

"Did you say I’ll find Mr. Dragoy in the back of the house?” he asks Elyan who's already walking away.

Elyan's nods. “Yes. Straight through the hallway, turn left, then right through the kitchen. Sir.”

Shaking his head, Arthur steps into the house.

*******

The first thing Arthur comes across as he walks through the hallway is a room with a large plexiglass box, pushed to the wall. It's tall enough to fit a man at full height. Tall and currently empty. Next to it is a table with something that looks like an oxygen tank with clear tubes running from it. Arthur’s already done his homework and is able to guess the purpose of the box and the tube in the given situation -- it's for a _Houdini_ water torture trick. Someone’s been practicing.

“Just magic, huh?” Arthur mutters and keeps walking.

More loud squealing and splashing noises come from the back of the house, and he heads straight towards the sound. It doesn’t take any effort to note the security cameras as he goes through the house and how inadequate they are in every sense of the word -- some painted over, wires exposed. Whoever was responsible for their upkeep should be fired. Oh wait, they already were.

Arthur passes another room with the door half-open and stops, backing up a little, overhearing  the conversation happening inside. He sees the back of a woman, her dark curly hair in a high ponytail. In black slacks and a yellow fitted blouse, she's moving around a table, pushing pieces of fabric this way and that, assembling something together, it seems.   
“Mordred, I could use some help here. You know this is not really my forte,” the woman says. “I can see that you hate it.”  She looks at someone hidden from Arthur's view, and he hears a sigh.

“I don’t really care,” a cranky male voice answers.

"You say you don't, but I've seen your sketches," the woman answers, rearranging pieces again, and pauses, humming.

"First of all," the man -- Mordred -- says, "quit snooping in my room, Gwen, that's gross and an invasion of my privacy. Second, those sketches were for me. Merlin's too tall and gangly and my designs would look ugly on him."

"First of all," the woman answers, a piece of fabric between her fingers flying loose as she points at the man, "if you want me to stop snooping, start cleaning your room yourself. Second, your designs are million times better than what I’m trying to make here. You have talent, Mordred, and--" The woman spots Arthur and frowns. "Hello? Mordred, stay here," she instructs before moving towards Arthur.

Mordred snorts. "Yeah, right." He swings the door open and stares at Arthur. "Who are you?"

Arthur takes his aviators off and pockets them. "Good afternoon. Where can I find Mr. Dragoy?"

Mordred gives him an unabashed up-and-down, eyes lingering on Arthur's forearms in rolled-up sleeves. "Who's asking?" he enquires.

"My name is Aaron Porkin.”

Mordred blinks slowly, a recognition dawns briefly on his face and then it’s gone right away. “Who? The screenwriter?" He looks at Arthur with confusion.

Arthur’s smile is blinding and Mordred’s expression softens. He smiles back, almost flirtatious. “For real? You write TV shows and stuff, right?”

Gwen pulls Mordred back, showing no signs of being star struck like Mordred. “Mordred, stop being nosy. We still have work to do. You don’t want Merlin upset, do you?”

Arthur watches several emotions passing quickly on Mordred’s face. One second, his nostrils flare; the next, he purses his lips, darting his eyes at Arthur, and finally, he rubs the inner corner of his eye and checks his finger, as if expecting to find some dirt on it, and shrugs. “Who would dare.”

“I thought so,” Gwen says, smiling, and nods at Arthur. “Excuse us, Mr… uh…”

“Porkin,” Arthur offers again.

"Right. Sorry. Yes, just keep walking that way." She gestures at the hallway. "You'll see Kilgharrah soon enough."

Arthur touches his brow in salute. “It was nice to meet you.”

Gwen forgets about Arthur in the next instance, once she’s back to manipulating pieces of fabric on the table. Mordred glances at Arthur, another smile touching a corner of his mouth, and turns his back.

As Arthur checks several boxes in his mental list of observations, he moves on.

*******

He finds Kilgharrah in the kitchen, patio doors wide open, sun streaming through in abundance, lighting up the entire room. The old man is standing by the island in the middle of the kitchen, cutting melon in thick, even slices, green shell cracking under the force of the knife.

"Melon?" he offers, placing a ripe-red piece on the plate and pushing it to Arthur. "Glad you’ve made it. Was it easy to find us?"

"I found you just fine," Arthur says, ignoring the offered plate, but paying attention to how unsurprised and relaxed Kilgharrah is. Almost smug.

"Good," Kilgharrah says, cutting another slice of melon. "I like breaking free from the cave of my office once in awhile and spending an afternoon in the sun here. It's always sunny here somehow. Good for my old bones, don't you think?"

Arthur takes a moment, frowning. "It's an odd question, Mr. Dragoy."

Kilgharrah's smile is not nearly genuine enough when he looks at Arthur. "Why?"

Feeling his patience being tested, Arthur says, "I'm not familiar enough with your lifestyle to make that kind of a call. Nor am I going to waste the time on fake compliments, which you seem to be fishing for. For what reason, it eludes me, since we both know you didn't invite me here on a date."

Kilgharrah's laugh is more like a dry cackle, clicking somewhere high in his throat. "All right, you got me. I'm a little odd."

"Kilgharrah, you old bugger, you're more than a little odd," someone says behind Arthur, and Arthur turns around to the voice.

A young man stands in the kitchen doorframe wearing nothing but gray joggers, sitting low on his hips. Beads of sweat are glistening on his well-sculptured torso, and he's wiping his face with his tee. "Are you speaking riddles again?" the man asks.

"Merlin!" Kilgharrah exclaims. "Perfect timing! This is Arthur Pendragon."

"How did he get into the house?" Merlin asks, measuring Arthur up and down briskly.

"I invited him," says Kilgharrah.

"What for?" Merlin asks.

 _British,_ Arthur thinks unnecessarily, since he already knows that about Merlin Emrys. He's read his profile, of course, and watched a couple of his performances online last night, but hearing him speak now, not in a stage voice and this close, makes it a little surreal.

Merlin Emrys emerged suddenly and became a fast celebrity, thanks to his fantastical performances, all over the globe. He propelled to fame after one memorable show in Trafalgar Square in London two years ago. It wasn't televised, and there weren't a lot of people in the audience. It was a magic trick of sorts, during which Emrys walked across a full-of-water fountain in the square, seemingly not touching the surface and remaining completely dry. Not everyone even understood right away what they had witnessed, but someone recorded it and posted it online. The video went viral.

Arthur didn't know any of this, nor had he heard of Emrys until yesterday, when Elena, Kilgharrah's assistant, called him with the name of the client and necessary details -- he had spent the majority of the past decade in assignments overseas and then, the past eight months in rehab and recovery. His shoulder throbs in reminder, like it always does when he dares to get distracted from the constant ache.

What Arthur does already know is that Emrys is attractive in his own way, with sharp cheekbones and striking deep-blue eyes, but he didn't expect this... this kind of presence from the man.

Mordred called him "too gangly" earlier. That's not what Arthur sees. He sees a cautiously smiling man with intelligent eyes, tall and toned, who takes care of his body. He's far from bulky, but he's certainly fit. Arthur knows a fit, well-trained male body when he sees one. But that's not all, and Arthur tries to put his finger on it...

Merlin Emrys is young. There are no reports on his exact age, but he can't be more than 24-25 years old, judging by the youth rounding his face. Yet, there's the certain air of grace and dignity of a man who knows his own worth in the way he carries himself as he approaches Arthur and shakes his hand. "So, tell me," he  says.

It reminds Arthur how measured and smooth Emrys's movements are during his performances,  mesmerizing. What he can do with his own body, it’s… Arthur had to pause it a few times last night while he watched Emrys during one of his shows. There was something about him... It felt that not only was he in full control of his body during the performance, and not just of his audience, but every single item under his hands transformed willingly at barely a touch, shone brighter and with more life and color. Merlin was magic on stage, and there’s a certain enigma about him now Arthur can't deny as Merlin takes a moment longer to hold Arthur's hand in his as if weighing it.

“Pardon?” Arthur re-focuses his eyes on Merlin’s curious face, finally dropping his hand.

Merlin reminds him of his question. “Why did my agent bring you here?”

Arthur pushes his shoulders back, rolling his chin up a little. “Mr. Dragoy didn’t tell you, then?”

Merlin narrows his eyes at Kilgharrah. “Kil, what's this about?”

Kilgharrah walks up and semi-hugs his client, oozing pleasantness. “It’s nothing serious, Merlin, like I told you. But you are a star now; you need strong security, and the other agency wasn’t measuring up.”

Merlin doesn’t seem to buy his agent’s argument, and Arthur doesn’t blame him. His lying is atrociously bad. “Kil, that’s bollocks. You know we're absolutely safe here in the house, and we have Percy to watch for nutters when we go out.”

“I know Percy is your childhood friend and you trust him, but he's an amateur,” Kilgharrah says, dropping pretenses, his expression sharpening. "Look, kid, we've been fighting over this for a month now. I’m not enjoying this any more than you do, but let me do my job. You needed someone who was a seasoned professional. I got you that someone. It’s in your contract to comply.”

Merlin freezes for a moment and then rolls his eyes, muttering, "Jesus Christ." He sighs. “All right, if you put it that way. But I don’t want him in my business when I’m training. He’s not allowed in the room.” He tosses his towel to Kilgharrah and moves to open the fridge. “I don’t want to feel him breathing down my neck all the time, you got that?” He glances at Arthur defiantly. “If you’re gonna be my shadow, be just that -- a shadow -- and we’re good.”

Kilgharrah glances at Arthur’s clenching jaw and suggests, “What Merlin is trying to say--”

Arthur cuts him off with a sharp, “I heard.”

"Brilliant." Merlin twists a lid off the bottle of water with a flick of his fingers and leans against the counter. “Now, let's be clear: my house -- my rules. Percy stays, and Elyan will remain as my driver. I want no changes to my schedule whatsoever and no policing my guests." He points the bottle at Arthur in a commanding gesture. "And one more thing: stay out of Freya’s sight. I don’t want her daily routine be disrupted in any way. To her, you’re not even a shadow. To Freya, you don’t exist. Are we clear?”

Merlin doesn't wait for a response. He starts chugging his water and gives Arthur a thumbs up, while looking at him from under his dark lashes.

Kilgharrah clears his throat. "Well, it’s settled then. Let me give you a tour of the house," he offers to Arthur.

“Thanks,” Arthur says. "I've seen enough.”

"Excellent,” Kilgharrah says cheerfully, as if he’s not catching on to Arthur’s terse tone. "When can you start?"

“You misunderstood," Arthur says firmly. "I'm not your guy. But thank you for the opportunity. It’s been a pleasure meeting you all." He clicks his heels and nods curtly, addressing Merlin. “Good afternoon, Mr. Emrys. I wish you good luck in your budding career.”

Merlin sputters some water out. “Excuse me?”

But Arthur’s had enough. With his jaw set, he turns around, ready to walk out.

“Arthur,” Kilgharrah calls.

Arthur waves his hand, stopping him. “I can find my way out. No need to bother.”

Merlin frowns for a beat and then shrugs. “Sure. There’s the door.” He points at it.   

With a throaty chuckle, Kilgharrah chides him, “Merlin, behave.”

Merlin snorts and tips the bottle of water to his mouth again. It spills a little, and Arthur is not distracted for a single moment by the way the water clings to Merlin’s skin, trickling down the sharp ridge of his Adam's apple to the base of his throat. In fact, Arthur turns around without sparing him another glance, and is fast on his way out, already forgetting about damn Emrys and this damn job he didn't need in the first place.

*******

 

The door slams behind Arthur's back the second he walks out of the kitchen. He hears Kilgharrah and Emrys's muted voices in a heated argument. It doesn't matter to Arthur. Yes, this place is clearly lacking any sort of security, the staff missing basic training, but if Emrys is so clueless or careless he can’t face it, it's not Arthur's problem.

Every door to every room along the corridor he's walking back is shut now from prying eyes. At least that's something. Not that Arthur cares. He's almost at the entrance door when a girl flies into the foyer of the house, breathing like she’s being chased. Arthur immediately palms his hip, finding nothing, of course, and immediately chagrined by his own reaction. This is really just a little girl in front of him. She’s barefoot, in a blue one-piece swimsuit, water dripping from her black hair, and there's a plastic water gun in her hand. With a suppressed giggle, she peeks her head outside, charges a few sprays of water from her gun at some loudly protesting guy, gets sprayed too, and jumps back into the house with a shriek. She slams the door and swirls around.

Her eyes widen as soon as she finally notices Arthur. Assessing him and her surroundings quickly, she seems to come to a plan. Smiling, she brings a finger to her lips, and, glancing back at the door, says, “Shhhh.”

Arthur arches a brow at her. Really?

"D'you know how to use a gun?" the girl whispers.

Arthur freezes. "Excuse me?"

"Freya, come on!" a male voice yells from the outside, a tall, large figure appearing behind the frosted glass of the entrance door. The knob of the door jiggles but doesn't give. "That's cheating!"

The girl looks at Arthur with utmost mischief in her eyes.

"Don't be such a spoil sport, Percy!" she yells at the door, her British accent now well-pronounced. "Pst, the gun," she whispers to Arthur again, waving impatiently. "The pistol.” The girl decidedly skips her “l”s as if she has no time for them. “In the bin behind you. I put it there this morning."

Arthur frowns. "Listen... Freya, right?" He remembers Emrys's earlier warning and winces. Oh well, nothing he can do about it now. "The word 'gun' or ‘pistol’ shouldn't even be in your vocabulary. How old are you?"

The girl rolls her eyes. "A water pistol, dummy. I'm Freya, and I'm ten already."

Arthur snorts. "Oh, if you're ten already. That changes things totally.” For some reason, he's whispering, too.

The doorknob jiggles with more vigor and a loud spray of water hits the door behind Freya loudly. She shrieks again and jumps away from the door. "You can't get me, Percy!" she yells, finding her wits quickly, and gesticulates at Arthur, encouraging him to join her in her game. "And you're outnumbered!"

The shadow behind the glass door grows larger and the voice says, sounding very close, "Cheating and bluffing. You've no honor, Freya. Have I taught you nothing?"

A shadow of guilt passes over Freya features, and it's so endearing, Arthur finds himself looking around in a search of the mentioned bin.

He finds it next to a coat hanger, a much bigger, pump water gun buried under a decorative pillow and a straw doll with the face drawn by hand and in a dress and a hat, looking like it’s been lovingly sewn together by someone. It's obviously not their first game, and the clever little girl obviously came well-prepared. Taking the toy out of the hiding place, Arthur can't help his smile. He nods, answering the hopeful expression on Freya's face.

Her happy grin only makes Arthur's smile bigger.

"We'll show you honor, Sir Percival!" Freya brandishes her water gun like a sword and shakes it.

Arthur steps in next to her. He shifts to widen his stance, the plastic gun atilt in his hands too light to replace the familiar feeling of a real one, and being next to a kid, holding it feels wrong, weird. Freya, still grinning, mimics Arthur in her stance. “Ready?”

“What are the rules?” Arthur whispers.

Freya’s thin brows rise up. “Rules? I dunno. We don’t usually have any.” She turns her attention to the door. “Hey, Percy? Do you know the rules?”

“Rules?” Percy asks.

“Yeah. Me and...” Freya leans closer to Arthur, whispering, “What’s your name?”

Arthur smiles, looking down at Freya, who’s now dancing from foot to foot impatiently. He assumes a serious face, clicks his heels with a salute. “Arthur Pendragon at your service, ma’am.”

Freya giggles and salutes back with her water gun.

“Hey, hey. Easy there, captain.” He carefully pushes her hand down. “Always show respect to firearms. Always. Got it?” When Freya’s mouth goes a little slack, he winks, so not to scare her completely. It’s just a game, after all. Kids aren’t supposed to know how to properly hold a gun. Kids aren't supposed know what war is, period.

“Yes, sir.” Freya nods solemnly.

“So, Freya,” he says, making his tone lighthearted. “How do we win this game?”

Freya’s eyes light right up again. “Hey, Percy,” she yells, looking at Arthur. “Arthur’s asking how to play this game.”

There’s a pause behind the door and the man asks, chuckling, “Who’s Arthur? Your new imaginary friend?”

Freya sighs. “I’m too old for imaginary friends, Percy. Arthur is real and he’s right next to me, and we’re going to beat you.”

“Riiight.” The way Percy drawls it tells Arthur he doesn’t believe Freya, and it isn’t right.

“Hello, Percy, Freya is telling the truth. She’s not alone here,” Arthur announces.

Percy sputters, and the door is practically groaning, he starts pounding on it so hard. “Freya, open the door! Are you okay, Freya?”

Freya laughs. “Relax, Percy. Arthur is…” She turns to him. “Hey, are you Merlin’s friend?”

Oh man, this isn’t right. The openness in Freya’s face, in her wide eyes, shifts something in Arthur, but he just doesn’t know how to answer her. He’s let this game go far enough.

He sighs. “Freya, I think we better open the door before Percy takes it off the hinges.”

Freya shakes her head, her eyes shifty. “Impossible. Even for Percy.”

“Freya, Freya! Please open!” Percy yells, shaking the doorknob. “Oh, bollocks!”

Arthur lowers to one knee in front of the girl who’s stubbornly biting her lip and refusing to comply. “Freya,” he says firmly, searching her eyes. “Is Percy your good friend?”

Freya nods without hesitation.

“Is his job to protect you?”

She shrugs and then nods again.

“Then as his good friend, you should let him do his job. Friends don’t let friends fail, even if they are sometimes a little irritating.”

Freya sighs. “Okay.” But as she turns to the door, she gives Arthur an exaggerated wink, the side of her face lifting up, and as soon as she touches the door, it flies open. She starts pumping water out of her gun right at the person in front of her. She yells, “Ha-ha, tricked you! Tricked you good!”

The guy freezes for a moment, letting the water sprays hit his chest, neck, his face. His frantic gaze skates over Freya, who’s laughing in delight, and falls on Arthur. With a growl, he goes around the girl and charges straight at him. Arthur has to give it to the guy -- what he lacks in skill, he compensates for in strength, size, and frustration. He tackles Arthur to the floor, pinning him down, and if it were a real gun in Arthur’s hand and a truly life-threatening situation, Arthur would’ve had this Percy guy immobilized in under 0.5 seconds. Alas, in this event, and considering there’s a little girl standing and watching them with curiosity and bit of apprehension, he has to suppress his natural reaction and deflect subtly Percy’s inept attempts at hitting.

Arthur does let a couple of blows go through, the one to his left brow stinging like a nasty bitch, to be honest, but he endures, considering it was his decision to allow this entire thing happen so he could see how the only guard of this household would react to a stranger’s intrusion. So far, the reaction is so-so, but Percy has some potential for sure.

When another one of Percy’s blows reaches Arthur’s still-tender shoulder, his aviators making a crunching sound in his breast pocket on impact, Arthur’s done testing. With a quick twist, he disables the large man, pinning him face down with a knee between his shoulderblades. Percy groans, unsuccessfully trying to free himself of Arthur’s unwavering grip.

Arthur glances at Freya, flashing her a warm smile, and says, lowering his mouth to Percy’s ear, “Easy. You broke my favorite glasses, but I’m letting it slide since I provoked you. My name is Arthur Pendragon. And I’m here because Mr. Dragoy asked me.”

Percy raises his face off the floor, straining a little but not fighting anymore. “You mean Kil?”

“Affirmative,” Arthur says. “Now, I have no intention to keep you in this position for much longer. But if you wish to be released, give me your word that you won’t do anything stupid.”

Percy grunts. “Like what?”

“Like trying to fight me again. Freya’s watching us.”

And Emrys. Arthur noticed him standing at the end of the hallway good thirty seconds ago.

“Percy, I haven’t got all day,” Arthur says, pressing his knee to his back a little firmer. “Are we going to be civil?”

Percy nods after a short pause. Arthur releases him, getting to his feet, and offers a hand, which red-and-wet-faced Percy accepts with a glance at Freya. Freya smiles hesitantly in return.

“Freya,” Emrys calls, tilting his head and reaching his hand out to her.

Freya sighs. “All right.”

“Pick up your toys,” Emrys reminds her, sounding like someone who’s said those words a million times before.

Freya does with another sigh and goes to him, holding the water guns to her chest and leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. Arthur can see some resemblance here: they both have dark hair, pale smooth skin, same smiles, but Merlin Emrys is too young to be Freya’s father, though there’s undeniably a very strong bond between them.

She stops by the spot with the coat hanger to retrieve the straw doll from the bin and dump the toy guns inside. When she reaches Emrys she turns her head. “It was nice meeting you, Arthur. You were rubbish, but don’t worry, you can come play again.”

Arthur’s brow and shoulder still sting, but he shakes it off and smiles. “Are you saying I wasn’t any good?”

Freya holds her head high. “Obviously. You two barmpots couldn’t even pick yourselves up off the floor.”

Emrys watches the exchange with amusement, not even trying to reprimand the rude little girl.

“Wow.” Arthur shakes his head. “I thought we were a team.”

Freya shrugs. “Nah. Uncle Kil says, everyone’s for themselves. Right, Merlin?”

Merlin tugs on a lock of her hair fondly. “You should stop listening to that old man. Now, go on. Percy, please see our guest to the gate.”

Percy, still flushed in his face, nods. “Yeah. Sorry for the mess, mate, I’ll clean up.”

Merlin waves.

“Can I go back to the pool?” Freya asks as she and Merlin are leaving. “Please, Merlin.”

“No, Freya, it’s time to find Mord--”

"Please please please please--"

The kitchen door shuts behind them.

Rubbing his neck, Percy mumbles to Arthur, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were a guest.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Do you get a lot of guests here?” It shouldn’t be Arthur’s business, yet he can’t stop himself from asking.

Percy shrugs. “It depends. There are days it’s a full house. And there are weeks when Merlin shuts himself out from the world. He practices a lot, and he travels. We travel with him. So Freya doesn’t have a lot of friends. If it weren’t for Gwen, Mordred and I, poor girl would be bored to tears.”

“She doesn’t go to school?” Arthur finds himself asking.

Percy shakes his head. “Not since we moved to the States. Homeschooled. Mordred is her official tutor. Have you met Mordred?”

“I have,” Arthur responds, thinking. “Is Mordred from UK, too?”

Percy smiles. “Yeah. Merlin, Mordred, and I are mates.”

There’s obviously a story behind every person in this house, but as it’s rightfully been said, curiosity killed the cat, and his time has expired here.

They’re at Arthur’s car, shaking hands, when Kilgharrah comes rushing out of the house, waving.

“Arthur, hold on.”

Arthur rubs his forehead, muttering, “Dammit.”

Percy looks at Arthur, at the huffing and puffing old man approaching them, and at Arthur again.

“Mr. Dragoy, I already gave you my answer.”

“I know, I know, but I wish to show you something that might change your mind. Please. Gaius told me you’d never turn down someone in need. He’ll be here shortly himself.”

Implying that Arthur’s actually a cold-hearted bastard is a low blow, and something tells Arthur that the old bugger, as Emrys called him succinctly, knows that and still has absolutely no qualms using that tactic.

Arthur touches his sore brow and says with a sigh, “Fine. But first, show me the way to a washroom.”

 

*******

They’re inside a bungalow adjacent to the main house, a short walk away. There are three furnished rooms: living, bedroom, a room used as an office, and a fairly large bathroom. No one seems to be living here. There are stacks of boxes with letters in the office. Letters and pictures to Merlin Emrys from fans. Arthur could never imagine someone being so loved by strangers.

“They arrive to my office and Elyan brings them here once a week. Merlin reads every single one of them,” Kilgharrah says proudly, as if speaking of his own child. “But we screen them before he sees them. Merlin has avid fans in every demographic, on every continent.” Kilgharrah opens a safe built into the wall and pulls out a yellow folder. “Most of them are professions of love, marriage proposals, poems, drawings. We also receive a lot of emails of the same nature, including digital demos from aspiring magicians. Merlin refuses to watch them.”

Arthur stops leafing the pages in front of him.  Kilgharrah’s right -- they all look the same. "Why?"

“Because he doesn’t want to be influenced by other magicians’ ideas,” Gaius says, walking into the office.

“Gaius,” Kilgharrah says, “You came.” He and Gaius don’t shake hands and don’t hug each other in greeting, which Arthur finds a little strange.

“Of course. You said it was important for Merlin." Gaius lands a hard gaze on Arthur. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur frowns. “Really? Didn’t you ask Morgana for a favor?”

Gaius turns to Kilgharrah, one eyebrow flying up. “This has you written all over it, Kilgharrah.”

If Kilgharrah feels guilty, it’s so short-lived, it barely registers on his face. “What? I’ve done nothing wrong. It wasn’t me who suggested Arthur. It was Morgana’s idea.”

“I don’t believe it!” Gaius exclaims. “When we discussed finding someone suitable for Merlin, I didn’t think she’d turn to Arthur. I merely suggested to use her connections. She knows everyone in the industry.”

Gaius shakes his head. “And you.” He points a finger at Arthur. “You should know better. Taking a job so soon. You’re not ready.”

Arthur already anticipates the fun conversation he’ll have with Morgana, but nonetheless, it’s not up to Gaius to make judgement calls here on Arthur's behalf. Gaius hasn’t been his treating doctor since he was eighteen.

“I’m fine, Gaius. If it weren’t for Morgana...” Arthur closes his eyes for a moment to calm down. “If it weren’t for Morgana, I’d be back to active duty by now.”

“Arthur, that would’ve been a terrible idea!” Gaius protests. “It’s--”

“Everyone thinks they know better than me, apparently,” Arthur interrupts him. “However, it’s not your decision. It’s mine.”

“But what about--” Gaius begins again.

“Passed with flying colors. I”m perfectly fit for the job, Gaius,” Arthur insists, wondering how he ended up fighting for something he didn’t want just a few minutes ago.

“I have all his papers, Gaius,” chimes in Kilgharrah. “Clean bill of health. Certified. I wouldn’t have offered him a position otherwise.”

Gaius sighs. “What do I know, then.”

It’s not every day Gaius accepts a defeat so easily, so Arthur considers this a small victory.

“How do you know Merlin?” he asks, to change the topic to something more relevant.

“Merlin's my godson,” Gaius replies. “His mom Hunith and I worked at the hospital back in London years ago. We were good friends.”

“And Freya?”

Gaius smiles. “She’s Merlin’s half-sister. He’s her legal guardian. Of course I know them both. I take it you met them already?”

Arthur nods. “I have.”

“So you know they need serious protection.”

“Stop panicking, Gaius,” Kilgharrah says. He places the yellow folder he removed from the safe in front of Arthur. “Take a look at this. Tell us what you think.”

*******

“What did the police say?” Arthur asks a few minutes later, having the letters with entirely different content splayed before him on the table. The words, cut out from news magazines and pasted crookedly on paper, are all addressed to Emrys, and promise pain, suffering, and fast-approaching death. Arthur has a hard time keeping his voice even when he inquires, “Have you received anything like this in the email as well? Have you tried to trace them?”

“Nothing in the emails, no," Kilgharrah says. “We didn’t contact the police.”

“Why?”

“There was no need. No one's been hurt.”

“What about the incident with the driver?”

Gaius and Kilgharrah look at each other, Kilgharrah’s expression strangely smug.

“Found out about that already, did you?” he says, as if it were some sort of a test Arthur passed, to his delight.

“Wasn’t hard, considering Elyan’s hands are heavily bandaged,” Arthur replies.

“There was a gift sent for Merlin to the office -- a deck of cards. It went up in flames when he tried to shuffle them as a joke. Could be unrelated,” Kilgharrah says.

"Does your client have a lot of enemies?"

“No, of course not!" Gaius says. "But that’s why I insisted on stronger security. It's getting out of hand."

“I see. So, we have letters, arsenic... Does Emrys know about any of this?” Arthur asks.

Kilgharrah looks at Gaius again, and neither of them respond.

Arthur already gets the entire picture and he doesn’t like it at all. “Didn’t Merlin care that one of his people was hurt? Wasn't he curious about what happened?” he asks.

“Oh, he cared, but you understand, I just didn’t want to worry him too much. He needs to be in the right frame of mind to perform. There's absolutely no point in upsetting him,” Kilgharrah says while Gaius shakes his head and smacks his lips in obvious disapproval.

“I wanted to tell him, but had to concede to Kilgharrah. Merlin has worked so hard to get where he is right now professionally."

"There are talks that his last year's special will earn him an Emmy nomination. That's huge for a new comer," Kilgharrah adds. "The announcement is in less than a month."

"Yes. Right," Gaius says. "So you see, Arthur, spoiling it for him didn’t seem fair.”

“Nor necessary,” Kilgharrah chimes in. “That’s where you come in, young man. You’ve been protecting people your whole career.”

“It was a different kind of career,” Arthur says, grim.

“All the same. You know what it takes; you will not hesitate when it matters.”

Gaius nods slowly. “I have to agree. At the end of the day, I can’t think of anyone better I’d trust with Merlin's safety than you.”

Arthur’s flattered, but flattery is the worst motivation when it comes to decisions involving other people’s safety and lives.

Kilgharrah, as if still sensing his hesitation, says, “I’d like to show you one more thing.”

*******

Ten minutes later, they’re back in the main building, walking into the room already familiar to Arthur, where the human-sized empty water tank is located.

“Even though this room’s been recently remodeled, Merlin never spends time here. It’s basically done up for photo-ops,” Kilgharrah explains to Arthur.

“Hmmmm.” Arthur walks around the oxygen tank on the table, trying not to step on the tubes running from it. “This is for the famous Houdini trick, right?”

“Exactly,” Kilgharrah answers. “Merlin would never expose the props he uses for his magic to the public. And let me tell you, his magic is much, much more sophisticated than anything Houdini’s ever done. No offense to the master, but Merlin’s truly special.”

Arthur thinks it’s no wonder that fame has caught up with Kilgharrah's client. Having someone like Merlin’s agent around can be toxic for someone not level-headed. He doesn’t like that Gaius appears to be nodding in agreement. Arthur refuses to acknowledge that he was no less fascinated by Merlin’s talent the second he’d seen him act in that famous amateur video. At least he hadn’t tried to feed into Merlin’s already fantastically inflated ego.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks.

“We found a letter here as well,” Kilgharrah says.

Arthur stops his walk around the room. “A stalker was in the house and left a threatening letter out in the open?”

“Someone broke into the house, left a letter, and masturbated all over this glass,” Kilgharrah says, pointing at the tank.

“And Merlin doesn’t know about this either,” Arthur says slowly, somehow sure it’s also a fact.

"It happened while they all were in New Zealand. Merlin had shows," Kilgharrah says, looking away.

“What do you think?” Gaius asks. “Of course he doesn’t know.”

"Of course." Arthur nods. "What did the security cameras show?"

Gaius shifts to lean on the table, as if tired. "Merlin hated the idea of being watched in the house. The feed was cut off as soon as they moved in."

“So...” Arthur stares at the tank, perfectly clean now, of course. “Someone scaled the wall, walked across the property without being stopped, broke into the house undetected, and jerked off in the prop room. Cameras were off. And between the two of you geniuses, no one figured to send the sample for a DNA test?"

Two old men look at him as if he’s just told them the Earth is round.

"Oh wow," he says after a speechless moment. "Well, I guess that's water under the bridge now... Are there any more secrets you'd like to share? Any more rooms with evidence completely erased?"

The men have the decency to look somewhat shamed.

"All right..." Arthur says. "Reality check. From what I've learned and observed today, I’d say you have a serious problem you’ve been too blind to see for too long.”

“What kind of a problem?” Gaius asks.

“The house is wide open.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house is wide open. You people have no idea what security is and what it takes to achieve it.”

“Just tell us what you need to fix it and we’ll accommodate you. Right, Kilgharrah?” Gaius says.

KIlgharrah scoffs and mutters, “This will cost me an arm and a leg, I bet.”

Arthur stares at him with profuse incredulity.

"I only wanted you to guard Merlin," Kilgharrah argues. "They’re not even in the house half the time."

“It doesn’t matter,” Gaius says. “Don’t listen to him, Arthur. He’ll do whatever it takes.” He points at Kilgharrah. “Do you forget what you promised when Merlin had just moved here? He signed with you because you swore to always do what’s in his best interest. It hasn't been the case, has it?"

Kilgharrah thinks about it for a moment. "Fine. Do whatever. I’ll foot the bill.”

That doesn’t satisfy Arthur, having already met Merlin and dealt with his attitude. “Well, I can’t protect him like this.”

“Like what?” Gaius asks.

Arthur looks at him. “I won’t be responsible for his safety if he doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Gaius assures him. “I’ll make him understand.”

“Gaius,” Kilgharrah says pointedly. “I’ll talk to him. It’s my job.” He pauses and turns to Arthur. “If I do, will you sign the contract?”

Arthur hears the squealing and splashing coming through the house and pictures Freya cannonballing into the pool, getting her half-brother wet from head to toe. It’s a picture worth seeing, probably.

Arthur sighs and nods.

******

Arthur makes a few calls and arrives at Merlin Emrys's residence several days later with a small crew. He's been best friends with Gwaine and Leon since high school, getting up to no good together, drinking, partying, falling in and out of relationships, and forming such a strong brotherly bond that even years apart and a lifetime of different experiences later it hasn't lessened. Arthur could always rely on them and trusted them implicitly, even if Gwaine had decided to date Arthur's sister without asking, while Arthur was away. They resolved the matter amicably when Arthur came back from a long-term assignment and upon learning the news, punched Gwaine in the face. Gwaine took it, without cowering, wiped the blood off his nose, and said, smiling, "Thanks for the blessing, sweetheart."

It's been almost three years, and so far, Morgana hasn't complained about her boyfriend once. She seems happy.

"Don't tell me they’re also on the payroll now," Kilgharrah grumbles, shaking Arthur’s friends’ hands upon their arrival to Emrys residence.

"Nah." Gwaine grins. "We're here for Arthur. In exchange for some beer."

Kilgharrah squints at him. "I've seen your cocky little face somewhere before... With Morgana, right? At the last Christmas gala?"

Gwaine's grin grows wider. "Good memory, old man."

Kilgharrah relaxes somewhat. “You’re okay, then. Morgana wouldn’t cross me.”

“Is he your employer?” Gwaine asks when Kilgharrah leaves.

Arthur nods. “Technically. Although he’s not my client.”

“I wouldn’t trust him for a second,” Leon mutters.

Arthur agrees, but his professional ethics don’t let him say it out loud.

“Okay, boys,” he says instead, “we have loads to do here. There are more guys coming to help us. Leon, you’re on sweeping the rooms for bugs, and Elyan here will show you the room to be repurposed for the control room. The security company will be arriving in thirty with the equipment. You'll supervise them.”

Leon works for the LAPD narcotics department, and is more than familiar with surveillance equipment. Gwaine is a freelance massage therapist, and is terribly proud of his occupation like he’s some sort of a hot-shot lawyer. Judging by the nice set of wheels he’s driving, he might be actually doing all right.

“We will also be replacing the gates at the front and changing the locks in the house,” Arthur addresses Leon.

Leon nods. “Sure, Arthur.”

“Elyan, I’ll be watching the gardening crew as they take care of the excessive amount of greenery on the perimeter of the property. Specifically by the wall. We’ll be installing the cameras where I marked it, to make sure we have the necessary visual. Find Percival and join me after you finish with Leon; I think it’d be good for both of you to watch the installation process and know where everything goes.”

Elyan's bright expression of interest on his face betraying his excitement as Arthur hands him a copy of the property plans.

“Gwaine.” Arthur turns to his friend.

Gwaine slings an arm over Arthur’s shoulder. “Yes, mistress.”

Arthur decidedly doesn’t roll his eyes, not to show his annoyance, because that would only encourage Gwaine to be more obnoxious. He shrugs Gwaine’s arm off. “First of all, don’t touch anything without being told so,” he instructs him firmly. “Second, don’t talk to anyone without being addressed.”

“Dude!” Gwaine exclaims in protest, making big eyes.

“You heard me. No touching, no talking,” Arthur repeats, ignoring the indignant noises coming out of his friend’s mouth. “And no drinking on the job. The kitchen and the wine cellar are off limits.”

Gwaine acts upset, slapping his thighs. “What the hell? You promised booze!”

“ _After_ the job’s done,” Arthur insists.

“But--”

Leon steps in front of Gwaine and cups his face with both hands. “Babycakes?”

“What?” Gwaine says, already a little subdued.

“Please shut the fuck up,” Leon says lovingly and kisses him soundly on the lips.

“The hell are you--,” Gwaine starts, but when Leon leans in again, squirms out of his hold with a loud, “Yes, I got it! Okay. Arthur, what was it you wanted me to do?”

Arthur looks at his friends. “What’s going on? Did I miss something important?”

Leon smirks. ”I’ve recently discovered a great way to make Gwaine more amenable. One kiss and he’s like putty in your hands.”

Arthur scratches his neck. “How does Morgana feel about that?”

“Arthur, you’re gay,” Leon reminds him. “Your sister can sure handle two guys kissing.”

“No, I know, that’s not…” Arthur sighs. “Gwaine’s not gay… I mean, is he?”

Gwaine shakes his head vigorously. “Nope. Not even for the two of you. My love-bits are off limits. Even if Morgana does occasionally find the thought hot.”

“You know,” Arthur says, already having had enough of this day and his friends, and it’s not even eight in the morning, “you’re a bunch of dicks. I don’t know why I thought I missed you.”

“Awww,” his friends say at the same time and start making kissing sounds, advancing on Arthur. "You missed us."

He shoves them away. “Stop messing around. You’re a fucking embarrassment to me right now.”

Arthur stops talking as soon as he sees Freya skipping across the lawn in their direction.

Mordred is following her. “Freya, come back! Merlin will have your behind if you skip classes this morning.”

Freya purposefully ignores him, waving. “Hi, Arthur. Wanna play today?” She’s holding the straw doll Arthur’s already seen before. It must be her favorite toy.

Mordred grabs Freya’s hand and pauses, looking in Arthur’s direction. A playful smile, just like last time, appears on his face. He pushes his hair back. “Oh. Hello. So, you’re Arthur.”

Arthur notices a van pulling up by the gates and nods to Gwaine. “Security guys are here. Please coordinate with Leon. Make sure to remove and dispose the old equipment throughout the house. Now, go.”

Luckily, he doesn’t have to repeat himself twice. His friends disappear in every direction.

Mordred approaches him, firmly holding a wiggling Freya. It looks like he’s had some practice handling this restless child. “I’m Mordred. We met a few days ago.”

Arthur smiles. “Hello. I recall.”

Mordred seems very pleased, then frowns a little. “Why did you say your name was Aaron Porkin?”  

Arthur has no intention to play games today. “Because I wanted to see how difficult it was to get into the house and get you all talking before you figure me out.”

Mordred’s demeanor sours a little, but he checks himself quickly. “And it wasn’t difficult, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Arthur confirms.

“Freya, stop it!” Mordred admonishes the girl, who’s trying to pull her arm away from his grip.

“Hi, Freya,” Arthur says, smiling. “How are you this morning?”

Freya turns her serious eyes to him. Merlin’s eyes were sky-blue, he noticed the other day. Freya’s are dark-green, with a feline slant to them.  “I hate homeschooling,” she proclaims. “Why can’t I go to a normal school like everyone else?”

Mordred dons an expression of patience. “You know why.”

“I know Merlin doesn’t want me to,” Freya argues loudly. “That’s bollocks.”

“No swearing, young lady,” Mordred says, like he’s at least fifty years old instead of twenty-something.

Freya places a hand on her hip. “Merlin says it. Why can’t I?”

“Er… Speaking of Merlin,” Arthur says. “I think your brother’s watching you right now.” He catches Emrys’s unmistakable tall, lean form in the window of the second floor of the house.  As soon as Arthur looks up, the figure disappears.

Mordred sighs. “Come on, Freya. Your brother is unbearable when he’s cross.”

“You should know, Mordred,” Freya says, turning towards the house. “Merlin’s been cross with you more times than with me.”

Mordred forces a laugh. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Freya shakes her head. “I have ears and eyes.”

Mordred’s smile slides off his face. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am not.”

Mordred is no longer in a kidding mood. Avoiding Arthur’s gaze, he orders Freya, “Enough. We have to go.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Freya sighs and follows Mordred, mumbling, “See you around, Arthur.”

Mordred doesn't look at him at all.

******

Arthur spends the entire morning moving from one area of the house to another and then outside, insuring the work is done according to his instructions and plans. Kilgharrah is nowhere to be found, Gaius is absent, Elyan’s helping Leon. Arthur would love to know where the rest of the people in household are, including his client, but at the moment, his priority is to bring security on the property up to the modern standards, and if it means personally removing the rusty intercom at the gates, he goes to do that without a second thought.

This is where he’s confronted by an angry Emrys, trailed by a visibly upset Elyan.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I was just doing what you asked me to do,” Elyan explains helplessly.

Emrys steps in Arthur’s space, ignoring Elyan's mumbling. “What did I tell you about touching my things in the house?” he demands.

Arthur wipes his dirty hands on a cloth, arching his brow. “Nothing, actually. You were explicit about not touching you, I recall.” Arthur’s aware how it sounds and utterly enjoys the change of color from slight-pink to a blushing-red on his client’s cheeks.

Emrys sucks in a breath, words ready to spill out of his mouth -- Arthur can tell -- but stops himself. His nostrils flare and he narrows his eyes. “If you dare…” Emrys stops again, inhaling, takes a moment and starts again, calmer, “I did not give you permission to install security cameras in my and Freya’s rooms. I refuse to be watched.”

“It’s part of the protocol,” Arthur responds, tone smooth. He waves at Elyan discreetly, telling him to go finish the job.

“What protocol?” Emrys demands.

“The one I submitted the proposal and budget for to Mr. Dragoy two days ago. He approved it.”

“My agent doesn’t control my life,” Emrys spits out.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Emrys, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with him. Mr. Dragoy is the one signing my paycheck, and he’s the one covering the installation expenses.”

“I can afford the installation expenses on my own,” Emrys hisses.The blue irises of his eyes burn with something molten and livid.

Arthur gives Emrys a lingering once-over. “I’m sure you can. Would you like me to stop what I’m doing while you give Mr. Dragoy a call?”

Emrys takes a step back. “No, but I want to know what else you’re doing on my property. Tell me everything.”

“Sure. Revamping the security system, obviously. Checking for bugs. Reinforcing the wall around the property in a few places where it’s not in good shape. Trimming the bushes and trees around.”

“Trimming the bushes?” Emrys snorts. “Are you auditioning for the gardener’s job as well? The position's already been taken by someone more qualified.”

Arthur doesn’t take the bait. “This is just for better visibility around the property,” he explains evenly. “And we’re changing the locks.”

“The locks?” Emrys’s indignant demeanor intensifies. He glares at Arthur. “Why?”

“Because even a child with a bobby pin can pick the lock to your front door,” Arthur says.

“This is bonkers.” Emrys presses fingers to his temples. “Why would anyone… “ He looks up at Arthur. “Kilgharrah couldn’t have authorized that. He knows how unnecessary it would be. We were perfectly safe as it was.”

Arthur frowns. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure!” Emrys exclaims. “Jesus. It’s my house, is it not?”

“Then you should know that the landscaping firm you hired doesn't have a license and couldn’t provide us with the full list of their employees. I had to let them go as well.”

“I didn't hire them. They were already working here when we moved in. They were doing a good job. There was no reason--” Merlin groans, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

Arthur never enjoys witnessing someone’s frustration or confusion, and Merlin’s is so palpable, Arthur questions his involvement in this whole thing again. Why can’t it ever be simple? Why do people have to hide things from each other? Why do people lie? Merlin obviously hasn’t been told anything, still; except, is it Arthur’s business to expose his agent and the old family friend? Maybe not, but he can stick around to make sure no more harm comes to Merlin Emrys and his little sister.

Arthur wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, settling on a decision in his mind. “Look, there are plenty of other landscaping companies. We’ll find a replacement easily.”

“Right,” Merlin mutters.

“The hammering and drilling will be over soon,” Arthur continues. “We’re almost done. One more day, and all these people will be out of your hair.”

Emrys raises thoughtful eyes at him. “And you as well? You’ll let me be?”

“I promise to sleep when you sleep, Mr. Emrys,” Arthur says, his tone softer.

Emrys searches Arthur’s face, biting his lip. “Merlin,” he finally says with almost a smile on his face. “You can call me Merlin, since we'll be seeing each other a lot.”

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats, surprised by the warmth this small concession brings to his chest. “It’s my job to watch after you. To protect you. And I'll do my utmost best.”

It’s impossible to explain how attractive Arthur finds Merlin just for this one truly genuine smile that’s spreading on his face at Arthur’s words.

Merlin leaves, and Arthur’s watching him. Just like he promised Merlin he would.

 

******

Arthur settles in the bungalow, since it’s already furnished and has everything he’ll need. Also, it’s rent-free.

The location is perfect: he can watch everyone who’s coming into and going out of the main building and see all the action by the pool without constantly peeking into the control room that’s being monitored by a hired staff -- Arthur can’t be everywhere at once, no matter how much he wants to try. His office and the bedroom windows are facing the side of the house where he knows Merlin’s rooms are -- his bedroom and practice studio -- which is convenient. From a strictly professional point of view, of course.   

Kilgharrah didn’t want the police involved, so Arthur hasn’t, but he’s found a workaround. Leon calls him three days after Arthur handed him the letters to analyze.

“So? Anything?” Arthur asks.

“Not really,” Leon replies. “Whoever’s doing it does a very thorough job. We found no fingerprints. There’s nothing special about the paper or the glue. We checked for saliva on the envelopes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. It’s all clean. There’s one thing I can tell you: whoever’s behind it has a lot of free time on their hands. They cut every letter separately to make up words, and with blunt scissors. A lot of work went into these letters. A lot of work.”

“Well, he’s delusional and obsessive, so…” Arthur rubs his forehead. “Any traces of chemical residue? We think he sent a deck of cards that caught fire spontaneously at a touch.”

Leon whistles. “Serious shit, Arthur.”

“I know.”

“No, nothing like that. We can check that out. Whatever’s been burnt.”

“Good idea, I’ll see if I can recover anything for you. So, no other leads?” Arthur asks, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Nothing so far,” Leon admits. “Maybe with the next letter.”

Yes, sure. As if they should be looking forward to Merlin Emrys getting more death threats. Arthur suppresses a sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

Leon hums and says, “You know, if I were you, I’d look closer at who’s around Emrys. The guy’s obviously getting more desperate, breaking into the house and marking his territory, so to speak. He’s getting bold and might be closer than you think.”

This is something Arthur’s been thinking himself, and this is why he’s been stringent with the house visitors list and hours, basically declaring a curfew, which Merlin practically loathes him for, despite the truce they’d called earlier.

“Hey,” Leon interrupts Arthur’s thoughts, “we’re thinking of getting together for drinks next Friday, wanna come? The usual spot.”

Arthur makes a noncommittal sound. “You know I’m on the job.”

“Don’t you get any days off?”

“According to my contract, yes,” Arthur says. “But as you can see, my client is a handful.”

“You can bring him with you?” Leon offers.

Arthur snorts. “Right, like he’s ever gonna go to a pub to meet a bunch of strangers.”

“You won’t know until you ask.”

That's crazy talk.

“I keep my personal and professional life separate."

“Right. As if you have a personal life.”

Knowing Leon, this is supposed to be a joke, but also kind of true.

Arthur closes his eyes. It’s not like he hasn’t had any partners, Service or not. With the “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy in full swing until recently, he wasn’t able to speak of his sexual orientation freely, but it didn’t mean he was completely abstinent during his years of service. Of course, getting a blow job in a stall of some pub on his day off during missions, or taking someone home for a night when he wasn’t on assignments, wasn’t exactly having a relationship, but he knew what he’d signed up for. Still, Leon was right -- retiring was supposed to put an end to his semi-closeted existence. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Arthur says.

Leon pauses. “Okay. So, call me if your magician gets any more love letters in the mail.”

Arthur cringes, but responds, “Yeah. Will do.”

“And stop being such a fucking hermit. You can go out sometimes and leave a backup with your precious client. He's an entertainer, not in a drug cartel. He’ll survive one night.”

It’s all true, but Arthur’s not ready to put this theory to the test yet.

“I’ll call you,” Arthur promises. “Thanks, man.”

Leon makes a grunting sound and hangs up.

******

If Arthur thought weekly obligatory dinners with Morgana were bad, he’d seen nothing yet until he had to escort Merlin and Kilgharrah to a Sunday brunch thing. Somehow, Kilgharrah managed to take more time to get ready than Merlin when they came to pick up the old man. They’re in the limo, waiting outside of Kilgharrah's condo, and Merlin and Arthur are sitting in the backseat, facing each other.

Elyan keeps his cool, prim at the wheel, constantly darting his eyes around, checking for anything unusual: people moving too fast, acting erratic, creating commotion. All that could be a sign of danger and is something Arthur has already been instilling in both Elyan and Percival. Elyan took to Arthur like fire, always trying to mimic his moves, and he might be trying a little too hard, not yet knowing how to be subtle, but Arthur appreciates the genuine effort. Percival’s with Freya today, catching a movie.

The radio is on, and several people are having a heated discussion about something.

“Science confirms that whatever the forces that exist around us,” a woman says, “they are due to the creation of field. Be that electromagnetic force, gravitational force, waves -- all that is explained through field theory. Educate yourself.”

“And I say it exists. I can personally vouch for that,” a man argues. “As for the scientific reason, we are yet to understand all the forces that work around us. Give it time.”

Another man laughs. “Please. The only ‘magic’ that exists is through trickery, illusion by the stage magicians. Some of them are very good, admittedly. But supernatural magic? I find this entire conversation ridic--”

The radio spatters and goes silent. Elyan starts fiddling with the controls, mumbling curses. “Elyan, leave it,” Merlin demands, not looking happy, and taps his cell phone to unlock it. He dials a number, waits, and spits out, “Kil, I’m giving you two more minutes and I’m out of here. You can take a bus to the restaurant, for all I care.”

He jabs a button on his phone like he’s trying to kill an enemy with his finger. “The old bugger just sent me straight to the voicemail. Can you believe it?”

Arthur smiles slightly and shakes his head, not offering any other response. He knows better than providing his own opinions on these kind of matters.

Merlin watches Arthur carefully, a thoughtful expression on his face that Arthur doesn’t think he likes, considering that Merlin’s testing his patience by wearing it. And then, Merlin goes lax, sprawling in his seat, his long legs stretching into Arthur's space. There’s something self-conscious yet daring in the way he’s staring at Arthur as he does that. His foot kicks Arthur’s and slides between Arthur’s feet as he licks his lips. Merlin’s ankle presses against the strap of the gun around Arthur’s calf. It’s a test, provocation, but Arthur can’t figure out whether it’s Merlin’s way to set the record straight on who’s the boss here, or push Arthur beyond his boundaries and make him so uncomfortable, he would quit. Well, if it’s the latter, Merlin should try harder.

The silence between them as they look at each other, either of them refusing to move, stretches far too long to be appropriate. A slow smirk spreads on Merlin’s face.

 _You little shit_ , Arthur thinks. _You think you already have me where you want me._

 _Not yet, but he will,_ his mind suggests helpfully.

Arthur decides that he will take an evening off at the first opportunity. Maybe Leon’s right and a good fuck would help him to resist thinking about fucking all the arrogance out of the boy magician, who doesn’t know much about life aside from being clever with his card tricks.

Not lowering his eyes from Emrys, Arthur leans in to pat the back of Elyan’s seat. “Let’s move, Elyan.”

“Not waiting for Mr. Dragoy?” Elyan asks, switching a gear.

“You heard Mr. Emrys. He can take a bus.”

Elyan considers it. “I’ll call Gwen to get him a cab, all right?”

Merlin shifts to sit up a little and clears his throat, losing some of his cockiness. “I wasn’t actually serious.”

“Well, you have less than fifty-five minutes left to have your lunch, so you make a decision,” Arthur says, tone nonchalant.

Merlin’s voice rises. “Fifty-five? Says who?”

 _Gotcha,_ Arthur thinks. _Still think you’re on the top of the world?_

Arthur manages to keep a stoic face as he offers, “According to your revised schedule.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “My revised schedule… Let me guess, approved by my manager-slash-agent?”

Arthur shrugs.

Merlin sits up straight. “Fuck you, Arthur.”

They both know Arthur isn’t going to answer.

Merlin takes out his cell phone again and starts typing. Probably something angry to his manager-slash-agent. Arthur can’t say it matters to him.

******

Despite making them wait earlier, Kilgharrah arrives at the restaurant only about ten minutes after Merlin and Arthur, and he finds them sitting at the table in silence, Merlin staring at the menu with a blank face. Arthur is gazing around with a similar expression.

“So, what did I miss?” Kilgharrah chirps like a bird in springtime while slithering into his chair like a snake. He accepts the menu from the waiter, who's at his side instantly.

Merlin makes an indignant sound and raises his menu higher.

“Loyalty, Merlin, will take you far,” Kilgharrah comments cryptically.

“Oh, shut up,” Merlin says, his mild tone not matching his biting words. Looks like he doesn’t hold grudges for long.

Merlin and Kilgharrah order and even manage to keep up small talk. They’re discussing some upcoming charity event, potential line up for the big show Merlin’s working on, and the traveling schedule. Arthur only listens to take note of anything that might help him get closer to Merlin’s stalker. The rest of the information he’ll get from Elena and Gwen. Gwen acts as Merlin’s personal assistant, but in reality wears a lot of hats, including managing Merlin’s finances, being his nutritionist, acupuncturist, family caretaker, and something of a mother figure to Freya. In a predominantly male household, Gwen’s soft demeanor and quiet grace is invaluable.

Their table is conveniently located in the corner, allowing Arthur a good spot to survey the restaurant. He’s still uneasy. It’s not like driving a humvee in the desert in enemy territory, of course; guarding someone -- just one person -- shouldn’t be that difficult, but it’s all still new to Arthur. The rules of the game are different, and he’s still growing used to taking orders from a civilian and being one himself, even if he has a registered weapon.

He catches a snatch of the conversation between Merlin and his agent, their postures tenser than just a minute ago.

“...wasn’t supposed to be this long, Kilgharrah. You promised.” Merlin’s gripping his utensils a little too hard between his white-knuckled fingers.

Kilgharrah sighs.

“How much longer?” Merlin asks, and Arthur thinks they’re talking about the stalker situation and the rigid security checks around Merlin’s house, but then Kilgharrah says, “It’s not the time yet, Merlin. You must be patient.”

“I’ve been patient for years, Kil. All we’ve done is being patient. I’m tired of waiting. I’m--” Merlin darts his eyes at Arthur and drops his eyes to his plate, stopping mid-sentence.

Kilgharrah pats Merlin’s hand: the flinch in response is subtle, but Arthur notices. He pretends that he doesn’t, keeping his expression fixed, for Merlin’s sake.

“There’s a time for everything, young man,” Kilgharrah murmurs.

Merlin’s gaze flares blue-gold. “ _Don’t_. Patronize me.”

Kilgharrah sits back with his hands raised, palms up, and he smiles. They study each other for a moment.

This is not about the stalker situation, Arthur figures. There’s more to this relationship than meets the naked eye.   

Merlin places his fork and knife on the table and drops his napkin on the plate. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore. You can afford the bill, I’m sure.” He turns to Arthur. “Shall we?”

Arthur glances at his watch. “Absolutely. It’s time to pick up Freya from the movie theater.”

Percival has taken Freya to the movies using another car. They don't need a pick-up service whatsoever.

The relief and appreciation flooding Merlin's features are worth their weight in gold, but Arthur decidedly doesn't relish it as he follows Merlin out of the restaurant.

Except, instead of heading towards the exit door, Merlin swerves from his path, turning into the corridor on their left.

Arthur’s right on his heels, of course. “Where are you going?”

Heaving a sigh, Merlin gestures at two doors, marked with distinct signs at the end of the hallway. “Where do you think? I have to pee.”

Arthur bites down on a retort and just keeps walking alongside Merlin. Once there, he opens the door and checks inside first. All three stalls.

Merlin makes a snorting sound and pushes past Arthur, going for the middle one. “Honestly. It’s just a loo. Who’d be waiting for me here?”

Arthur stands back, watching Merlin to start closing the door, when Merlin pauses, his expression changing, and Arthur already knows that face. That I’ve-got-a-brilliant-idea face that means trouble for Arthur.

And there it goes.

Merlin’s mouth curves into a sly smile as he leans onto the side of the door. “Do you want to come in here with me? Just to be safe.”

Arthur looks at him without blinking.

Merlin shrugs and closes the door. “You probably won’t believe this,” he keeps talking, already inside.

Arthur hears a zipper open.

“--but I don’t really like these outings. It’s all Kilgharrah’s idea of doing publicity. Like people can’t bloody survive a Sunday without seeing me eating a salad in public.”

Arthur makes a soft snorting sound, and Merlin must have heard that, because he says, “I know. I should just say no, but what happens if I do? Kilgharrah’s been in this business forever. He knows what he’s doing.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

“He wants me to be patient, follow the plan. So I do, even if I don't like it. A lot of people depend on me.”

Arthur stays silent.

Zipper closes. Water’s flushing.

Arthur thinks in the back of his mind that he didn’t hear any other noises in between.

Merlin comes out and stands in the doorframe, feet spread, eyes narrow. "What?"

Arthur shakes his head, keeping silent.

Merlin insists, “You disagree?”

Someone tries to come in the restroom. Arthur zips forward to block them with a clipped, “Closed for service. Come back in a minute.”

Merlin crosses his arms on his chest. “You think I’ve not eaten enough shite yet to talk, huh? You’re such an expert in life and people.”

“I’ve seen a thing or two,” Arthur can’t help saying. Because Merlin is so fucking good at pushing him and pushing.

“And what, now you think you have all the answers?”

Arthur presses his shoulder against the door, ignoring the dull ache that’s still there. All day, every day. He can’t ignore Merlin dead-staring at him, so he says, “I think you can be as you choose to be.”

Merlin snorts. “Really? How?”

Arthur purses his lips. “It’s an act of discipline, but it’s possible.”

“But it’s possible,” Merlin mocks him. “Is that why you’d rather go on assignments in far-away countries, than be tied down at home?”

Arthur pulls back straight, turning to Merlin.

Merlin takes a step forward, chin jutted up. “What, you think I wouldn’t try to find out who I’m trusting to nanny us 24/7? Taking orders is much easier than making your own decisions, isn’t it?”

Arthur holds his breath for a beat, letting the wave of anger pass. It’s not easy, but he should practice what he preaches -- discipline. “That’s right,” he answers dully.

“ _That’s right_? And that’s it? Do you have more words in your vocabulary?” Merlin presses, his blue eyes bright and hot.

“You’re too clever for me. I can’t keep up,” Arthur answers, already calm again, even bored.

“Another cop-out answer,” Merlin snaps. “Look at me,” he demands when Arthur tries to turn away.

Arthur raises his eyes to meet Merlin’s, and he’s not able to look away from the harsh, accusing gaze.

“You don’t approve of me, do you?” Merlin says.

Arthur isn’t sure what the appropriate response is here. Yes, it’s true, he can’t say he relates to Merlin’s lifestyle or his choice of profession. It’s all… fake, unreal. But then, Merlin clearly cares about his family and doing a good job. He’s seen him, gentle, patient, firm, with Freya, and he’s watched him practice. Though he's never seen him practicing actual magic tricks, he's watched Merlin juggle, toss knives at the target over and over, do laps in the pool until his lungs give out, take a punch in the stomach while sparring with Percival. Merlin is no slouch. He has integrity and work ethic.

He doesn’t disapprove of Merlin.  

“Disapproval is a luxury I can’t afford,” he chooses to say.

“Oh, gets in the way, right?” Merlin asks, acerbic. He steps to the sink to wash his hands. “Can’t stand your emotions getting to you? Never mix business with pleasure?”

Arthur sighs. “That’s right.” He is not looking at Merlin, but he can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

“Pass me a napkin, would you?” Merlin orders, nodding at the paper holder behind Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat. “I’m here to keep you alive, not help you wash.”

"You're right." Merlin leans over Arthur, brushing his shoulder against Arthur’s arm, and snatches a few napkins. “That would be a promotion you don’t deserve.”

He wipes his hands and does something to the used, crumpled pieces of paper, making it disappear somehow right from under his fingers. Arthur doesn’t show his bafflement, but judging by the satisfied smirk on Merlin’s face as he lets Arthur open the door for him, he noticed it anyway.

******

An excited teenage girl rushes towards Merlin as soon as they step on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. "Oh my god, oh my god, it's you! It's you! You're Merlin Emrys! I thought it was you, but wasn't sure. They didn't let me in the restaurant. I waited here for forty minutes."

Merlin smiles patiently.

Arthur's already moving forward to separate the girl from Merlin.

"Oh, Merlin, can I please take a picture with you?" the girl keeps babbling. "Just one picture, or my friends won't believe me."

Arthur stops her firmly, half-blocking Merlin. "Not today, miss. I'm sorry."

The girl's cheeks redden, eyes starting to well with tears, "But--"

Merlin places a hand on Arthur's shoulder, pulling him back a little. "It's all right." He gives Arthur a forced smile. "Of course you can have a picture." He steps in front of Arthur before Arthur can say anything else, grins at the girl, and whispers to her conspiratorially but loud enough, "He hasn't had his prune juice today yet."

The girl laughs, slides the screen on her phone, and steps closer to Merlin, holding the phone up in front of them for a selfie.

"Hang on," Merlin says, "I have a better idea. Arthur, you take our picture."

He takes the phone from the girl's hand and offers it to Arthur. Arthur doesn't move, his face unreadable.

If Merlin is annoyed, he doesn't show it. With a light laugh, he turns back to the girl. "All right. Come here."

They take several selfies, making faces. The girl is clearly smitten with Merlin's charm. Arthur shifts from foot to foot, glancing at his watch. Merlin pointedly ignores him. Kilgharrah shows up, having been done with his meal, apparently.

"Having fun, Merlin?" he asks.

Merlin glances at him, something passing over his expression. Petulant, almost stubborn. That daring look again.

"Oh, we've only just started," he declares and smiles at the girl. "May I? Look."

He brushes his fingers over her naked wrist, and a butterfly, bright blue and most certainly alive, appears right on his palm when he turns his hand over. The girl _awwws_ , watching the butterfly flutter its wings in the air. But when she reaches out to touch it, the butterfly bursts into golden dust, particles slowly dissipating.

"Oh my god! How did you do that?" the girl gasps. "That was beautiful."

Merlin smiles and shrugs. "Just magic."

The girl nods. "Thank you. I believe it."

Merlin's expression turns serious. "You should. And thank you."

Kilgharrah steps forward. He does not look pleased in the slightest. "Thank you, little girl. You can go now."

With a last besotted glance at Merlin over her shoulder, the girl walks away.

Kilgharrah's pissed. "What were you thinking?" he demands, his cheek twitching, and Arthur supports the sentiment completely.

"You know what I'm thinking," Merlin says, his jaw a tense line. A beautiful, sharp angle.

Before Kilgharrah offers another argument, a taxi stops at the curb and the driver calls, "Mr. Dragoy?"

Kilgharrah's eyes narrow at Merlin. "I didn't order a taxi."

Merlin shrugs. "I did. You seemed like you were in a hurry."

Arthur wonders when Merlin managed to do that and have it timed so well, but Elyan is already here as well, opening the door for Merlin, and Merlin dives inside.

"I'm not gonna wait for you here all day, Arthur," he snaps from the backseat, and Arthur has no choice but to quickly follow.

******

 

Arthur can't believe his luck when Elyan confirms that he kept both his shirt and the jacket after the spontaneous fire incident with the deck of cards. It doesn’t matter that Elyan kept them mostly because they were stuffed in the bag he brought home from the hospital, and he forgot about it.

“Excellent,” Arthur murmurs. “Now, I’d like you to bring them to me. Everything you have saved from that day.”

Elyan’s worried brown eyes go round. “Why?”

“It’s evidence, Elyan. I’ll send it to forensics. Along with the new letter." Which arrived this morning, reminding them that nothing's changed since Arthur was hired. The threat is still real; no time to relax.

“Evidence, right... There was nothing left of the cards,” Elyan says with regret. “Sorry.”

Arthur pats his shoulder. “You’re okay.”

Ten minutes later, Arthur hears an argument by the windows of his bungalow, and he doesn’t need three guesses to know who’s involved.

Merlin -- blocking Elyan’s passage into Arthur’s house -- holds a brown grocery bag in his hands, peering inside.

“Merlin, please,” Elyan whines, reaching for the bag but too afraid to actually fight for it with Merlin, like a kid bullied at the playground. “This is my stuff. Give it back.”

“No,” Merlin snipes, dodging Elyan’s attempts. “Not until you tell me why you’re sneaking off here with the bag full of clothes.”

Arthur steps out of his house. “May I help you?”

“Arthur!” Elyan exclaims. “Please tell Merlin this is mine.”

“I know it’s yours, you idiot,” Merlin hisses. He pulls a shirt out of the bag, unceremoniously shaking it, and stiffens, noticing the damage on the sleeves and dark smudges in the front. “There are burn holes here. Why’re you bringing them to Arthur?”

Elyan turns his pleading eyes to Arthur. “I swear I didn’t tell him anything,” he blurts out.

And maybe it’s time -- for Merlin to know everything.

“That’s fine, Elyan,” Arthur says. “You can go.”

“Wait.” Merlin stops Elyan. He quickly inspects the fabric of the damaged cuff with his nail, brings it up to look at it in the sun, even sniffs it. He turns pale. “Tell me what happened, Elyan, right now. Were you wearing this when the fire happened?”

Elyan nods reluctantly, glancing at Arthur, who gives him an approving tilt of his head.

“You said it was an accident, but this...” Merlin shakes the shirt at Elyan. “...is not a result of an accident. This was an attack. Who did this?”

Elyan starts mumbling, stepping back. “Merlin, I really don’t know. Please. It’s not a big deal. It was another empty threat.”

Merlin freezes. “Another? What do you mean, another?”

Elyan starts sweating and shaking. “No. I mean... I didn’t mean… Merlin…” He looks like he’s about to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” Merlin mutters and takes a deep breath. “I’m not angry with you, Elyan, calm down. It couldn’t be your fault.” He closes his eyes for a second, shakes his head. “Please go back to the house, all right? We’ll talk later. You are not in trouble, I promise.”

Elyan gives Arthur another apologetic glance and shuffles his feet to the house.

“But you.” Merlin turns to Arthur. “You and I need to talk. Right after this.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and dials a number. “Gaius,” he says after a few moments of silence, “I know that old snake won’t tell me the truth. He never does, so I won’t bother calling him. But you’re better than that. I want to know what’s going on.” Merlin shoots a glare at Arthur, who’s calmly leaning into the frame of the door.

“What am I talking about? Elyan’s been hurt and it wasn’t an accident, like you all told me before. It was an attack meant for me, wasn’t it? And I can bet my bottom dollar you all knew. You knew the truth about it, didn’t you?”

Arthur hears Gaius mumble something, words not decipherable. “Protect me? That’s bollocks is what it is! My performances have nothing to do with it. That’s not how you protect me! What else have you been hiding from me? Don’t lie!”

Gaius says something else.

“Letters?” Merlin growls. “What kind of letters?” He listens, his jaw working hard. “Someone was in my house? That’s impossible!” He shakes his head, the look in his eyes turning panicky. “No. No. Gaius… Was Freya in the house?... Don’t _Merlin_ me! Was Freya in the house?” His voice vibrates with anger. “How did he even get in? Do you know what that means? Oh my god, Gaius! How could you hide this from me?”

Arthur steps in and pulls the phone out of Merlin’s slack fingers, softly suggesting, “Let me.”

Merlin doesn’t fight him.

“Come on. Let’s step into the house.” He tugs Elyan’s bag from Merlin’s other hand, while coaxing him to walk. Merlin goes without objecting, glassy-eyed.

“Gaius,” Arthur says into the phone, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gaius exhales. “I’m so sorry. I thought Kilgharrah had told him at least something. Merlin’s been too calm, too indifferent, like nothing’s changed. I should’ve figured. I’m sorry.”

Arthur shrugs, nudging Merlin into the kitchen. “I figured first.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Arthur sighs. “I thought you and Kilgharrah were in cahoots. I didn’t trust either of you,” he admits.

He doubts Merlin, even in his slightly stupefied state, would appreciate Arthur mollycoddling him, so he just goes to the fridge and pulls a bottle of beer out, offering it to Merlin. Merlin looks at it for a moment before clasping it.  

“But you didn’t walk away from the job,” Gaius observes with appreciation in his voice.

“Someone has to do it, why not me,” Arthur mutters.

“I’m glad it’s you, Arthur, thank--”

Arthur hangs up, not interested in the rest of the tirade. They’ve wasted enough time on bullshit.

He hands the phone back to a silent Merlin, kicking the bag with Elyan’s shirt spilling out of it under the table, and gets himself a beer, too. They both need it.

The conversation is not going to be easy, but it’s a necessary one, and Arthur is not going to kid-glove Merlin anymore. Judging by the gleam in Merlin’s eyes and a muscle jumping in his jaw, he’s already recovered and ready to throw a few punches himself. Arthur likes that.

 

******

Arthur has seen enough in his life to take what's thrown at him without much fuss, but when Elyan shows up, suited-up and fidgety, at Arthur’s steps that same evening, Arthur’s certainly surprised.

“Kilgharrah told me to get the car ready. We’re leaving,” Elyan says. He works for Kilgharrah as well, so his employer can give him any assignment he wishes when Merlin stays in the house.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Have a nice evening.”

Elyan lodges his foot into the door when Arthur starts closing it. “No, I mean, Merlin told me to tell you that Kilgharrah told me to get the car ready.”

Arthur smiles. “That’s very thoughtful of Merlin, but I really don’t care how the old man plans to spend his evening. I hope he pays you generously.”

Elyan looks at him like he’s stupid. “Arthur, Merlin’s leaving. He has a gig tonight. A performance. In case you forgot.”

Arthur startles. “Hang on. I thought the event was canceled. I thought Merlin didn’t want to go anywhere.”

“Well,” Elyan says, jiggling the limo keys between his fingers. “Then you don’t know Merlin. He would never skip on his obligation. You better get hopping, or they’ll make me leave without you. I already checked the car, like you taught me to. It's all clear. Okay?”  

Arthur’s ready and out of the bungalow within thirty seconds, watching Elyan opening the door for the dressed-up Kilgharrah and Merlin. Merlin’s in black slim-fit, ass-hugging pants, a purple dress shirt, and a fitted striped vest. The front of his hair is teased up, mussed in a deliberately carefree way. Damn Arthur if the magician doesn't look good -- crisp yet smooth. He cleans up well for sure. Merlin glances over his shoulder, noticing Arthur, and gives him a nearly imperceptible nod before disappearing in the limo. Arthur’s step wavers a little… Was there black eyeliner around Merlin’s eyes? Kilgharrah follows Merlin, climbing inside with a grunt.

Elyan slowly walks around the limo to the driver’s seat, letting Arthur catch up with them. Arthur isn’t planning to argue. His client does whatever he wants, whenever he wants to, and Arthur’s job is to follow and blend in. Except, not exactly. His job is to always be there and be visible enough for any potential attacker to _know_ their object of obsession is not unprotected.

“Hello, Arthur,” Kilgharrah says, oozing friendliness. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Hello, Mr. Dragoy,” Arthur replies. “Nice of you to show your face around here.”

He’s way out of line and he knows it, but short of kicking him out, which he won’t do -- they all know that -- what else can the old bastard do to him? Arthur isn’t afraid of Kilgharrah; he’s _irritated_ with him, to put it mildly. Basically, he’s pissed at this point, not only for putting Merlin in danger by withholding important information from him, but also for using Arthur to play along.

Kilgharrah doesn’t appear to give a damn, however. He fiddles with his cufflinks, then adjusts his breast-pocket handkerchief. He fucking whistles, studying the black lining of the car’s ceiling. All this time, Merlin watches Arthur intently, not lowering his eyes from him as if daring Arthur to do something, to say what he really feels.

Arthur probably would if he wasn’t concerned with the new route he notices Elyan’s taking. This was supposed to be Arthur’s first time accompanying Merlin to his performance. Arthur knew well ahead about tonight’s event. It was a private show at a small club. Arthur took time to prepare for it. He did his research, like he always does for any of his assignments, discussed both the route and the floorplan of the location with Elyan and Percival. They were ready. Except, he was sure that after this afternoon’s revelations, Merlin would need some time to regroup, to figure things out. He assumed that at the minimum, Merlin would want to cancel tonight, and if he were Merlin, he’d fire his bastard agent without another thought. The last thing he expected was to see the damned old man at Merlin’s side only a few hours after Merlin had found out what a lying, opportunistic son of a bitch the guy actually was.

Arthur really doesn’t understand these people, and maybe he shouldn’t try.

“Elyan, where are you going?” he asks, keeping his voice nonchalant and avoiding looking at the smirking Kilgharrah, because obviously the old fuck knows what Arthur thinks of him. Of course he knows, and tonight's probably another test for Kilgharrah’s personal entertainment.

“Change of plans. Sorry, Arthur,” Elyan says.

“Last minute,” Kilgharrah says. “The event had sold out and we arranged to move it to a bigger venue. It’s all for charity, you see.”

Arthur glances at Merlin, who seems to find checking his nails a lot more interesting than contributing to the conversation.

Arthur clears his throat. “Charity. Got it… Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We just did,” Kilgharrah answers, buoyant.

Arthur nods, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Where’s Percy?”

Elyan glances at Arthur in the rear view mirror, eyes guilty. “Already at the location.”

Well, at least there’s that. Arthur spends the rest of the ride texting Percy and working out as much detail as he can en route.

******

The venue is a large, upscale restaurant with two private event spaces. One of them is reserved for this charity dinner and, as Arthur learns, over 150 people are booked and eager to be in attendance. Merlin is known to perform in sold-out venues of several thousand, so 150 is a blessing and shouldn’t be that big of a challenge. Except it is, because Merlin’s stalker is somewhere out there and all Arthur knows about this person is that they have working male genitalia. Considering the amount of people in the area who would fall under that category, it’s safe to say that it’s too broad of a description. The good news is that Merlin knows about the danger now, so Arthur can be honest with him and act accordingly without worrying about Merlin’s sensibilities.

Arthur knows they’re at the location by the sea of a crowd undulating in front of the building, yelling, laughing, waving hands.

“Should I drive to the back?” Elyan asks, slowing down but not stopping.

“Out of the question,” Kilgharrah says. "We’re going through the main entrance. These people have been waiting for Merlin.” He turns to Arthur. “This is a part of his job.”

And you do yours, Arthur reads on Kilgharrah’s stern face.

Arthur gives him a nod. Sitting up, he looks at Merlin, catching his gaze. “We'll wait for Elyan to open the door. I’m going out first. You wait for my cue.”

Merlin nods.

“Here.” Arthur reaches out to take Merlin's hand. Merlin’s eyes widen as Arthur presses a pin -- a simple silver brooch the size of a dollar, with a small, round black stone in the middle -- into his palm. “I want you to keep this.”

“Arthur, I don’t… Oh.” A smile blooms on Merlin's face, the first one Arthur has seen today. "It’s lovely."

Arthur presses the stone like a button and it makes a tiny beeping sound. “It’s fitted with a transmitter, telling me where you are. When you close the clasp, it activates. So if there’s ever a problem or we’re separated, just press this and I’ll know you need me.”

Merlin’s face crumples a little, but he nods.

“Not a family heirloom, by any chance?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Leave him alone,” Merlin says, but his tone lacks punch. He attaches the brooch to his vest and leans back against the seat, closing his eyes.  “He’s doing his job.”

The car’s stopping.

“Ready?” Elyan asks.

“Absolutely,” Merlin says and sits up. His expression switches from detached to determined; he’s focused again, like nothing else matters but the job ahead.

A thought occurs to Arthur and he asks, “Merlin, where’s your equipment?”

“What equipment?” Merlin asks.

“I don’t know how you call it. Your gear. Your props? Did Percival carry it here? Who’s setting it up for you?”

Merlin just smiles.

Kilgharrah smiles, too, but it doesn’t escape Arthur’s attention that he’s tensing up. “It’s all taken care of, of course.” He leans over to pat Merlin’s knee. “Right, Merlin?”

“Right,” Merlin agrees, sounding distracted.

Elyan opens the limo’s door, and they’re immediately bombarded by people yelling Merlin's name, and blinding them by the flashes of their cameras and phones. Elyan keeps blocking them, asking them to step back. Arthur, who’s not used to madness of this sort, takes a moment to absorb it all, and as he centers himself, Merlin makes a wide gesture for him to go first and tells him, “Welcome to my world.”

******

Arthur doesn’t know how Merlin does it.

Merlin is not rushing through the crowd; he doesn't bow his head, doesn't look afraid or worried in the slightest. He's warm and smooth, with a mysterious, soft smile on his lips -- a part of his professional persona -- as he waves, shakes hands, pauses for pictures and autographs, thanking and apologizing to those who can’t get inside.

“Hey, Emrys!” someone yells from the crowd. “Show us a trick.”

Merlin pauses and shakes his head while signing someone's hand. “I don’t do tricks,” he responds loudly.

“What do you do, then?” someone else yells.

Merlin laughs. “Have you not been to any of my shows?”

In the periphery of Arthur’s vision, he checks on Kilgharrah, who’s been struggling to keep up with them in the sea of people. Some guy in a black hoodie, with a piece of paper for Merlin’s autograph, steps so close to Merlin, Arthur has to shove him in the chest with a stern, “Back off.” The guy glares but does as he's told.

“Your tickets are too expensive!” the man who asked Merlin for a trick yells again.

Merlin snaps his head up, searching for the yelling man in the crowd. He spots the guy waving at them and he tuts. "Are they? That's a shame, though, isn’t it?” He pauses, mulling something over, and says, “All right. I might have a solution..."

He's not even raising his voice this time, and Arthur doesn’t understand how, but Merlin’s words easily carry over the loud chatter of the crowd; strong and clear, they command everyone to stop moving and start listening to Merlin, as if they’re being hypnotized.

“Look, guys,” Merlin says, addressing everyone in the crowd at once. “I appreciate you coming here tonight. Your support means everything to me. And you probably know what this evening is about, so you know that tonight isn’t about me but to raise awareness about a very serious disease. I can’t bring you all inside, but I promise you that if you make any form of a donation towards this charity and show proof, I’ll make sure that every person who does so, will get a free ticket to my next show in two weeks. The front row.” Merlin briefly turns to Arthur, grinning, and winks. _Winks._ Looking like it gives him the greatest pleasure, he points at Kilgharrah, who’s managed to finally catch up with them. “Talk to this guy. He’s my manager and will provide you with the necessary details. Right, Kilgharrah?”

The crowd goes wild, Kilgharrah’s screams of protest the loudest. Merlin’s done it. People’s attention shifts from him to the man of the hour: the agent-slash-asshole, who’s about to pay for his assholeness in more ways than one. Arthur can’t think of a better revenge. And so probably can't Merlin, who leans in close and murmurs, “Now what do you think, Arthur? Should we wait for him or go in?”

Arthur thinks that what he’s just seen was pure magic, and if this is what Merlin is genuinely about, then Arthur’s probably, utterly, doomed.   

 

*******

“You should’ve stayed home,” he still tells Merlin when they’re brought into a room for Merlin to get ready for the show.

“No,” Merlin says, sitting in front of the mirror, and now, in good lighting, Arthur definitely sees eyeliner there artfully smudged around his eyes, and a gloss on his frowning lips. “You mean I should’ve told you that I’m not.”

“Yes!” Arthur doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help raising his voice. “If you want me to protect you, I have to know about your every move.”

“So you can control me, like the rest of ’em. At least Kilgharrah lets me work,” Merlin says, rubbing each finger, massaging each joint, warming them. “Let’s be honest. If it were up to you, you’d keep me on house arrest.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Arthur snaps, not denying the thought has crossed his mind.

“For how long?” Merlin asks. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing slim, pale wrists, and begins to massage them.

“Until we find the psycho who’s been threatening you,” Arthur says.

“You think he’s out there? Tonight?” Merlin stops and looks at him in the mirror, waiting for an answer. His face is slightly distorted in the reflection, but his eyes, brighter blue in contrast with the black makeup, sharp cheekbones, parted glossy lips -- Merlin mesmerizes Arthur speechless and he has to make an effort to look away.

Arthur clears his throat, but it still comes out hoarse. “He might be. Do you have to make it more difficult for me?”

“Are you seriously making it about you?”

Arthur rubs his forehead. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

Merlin gets up, takes off his vest, and undoes the two top buttons of his shirt, giving Arthur a better view of his skin underneath, smooth and so luminous Arthur thinks there could be more makeup involved -- with the _shimmer_ \-- and god dammit if Arthur doesn't find it sexy. Merlin starts rolling his shoulders, pulling his arms across his body. He exposes his long neck, craning it in a stretch, making a light groaning noise, and Arthur decidedly doesn’t follow Merlin’s every move with his eyes.

“I know what you meant, but I want you to understand: as much as I appreciate your expertise and the sacrifice, you’re here because I have a job to do. What I do is who I am. No one can take it away from me, no one can tell me the risk is not worth it. It is to me.”

Merlin’s gaze is burning with conviction, hands pressed together, pointing at Arthur, and Arthur does understand where Merlin’s coming from. He can relate.

He sighs and nods. “Can you at least promise me not to go behind my back with your decisions? I get why you did what you did, but no more of this rebelling crap, okay?”

Merlin turns on his mischievous smile that he already knows gets to Arthur like nothing else. “Does it mean you’ll be going _everywhere_ with me from now on? Keep me company in the loo? Tuck me in bed?”

Arthur shakes his head. Merlin is so damn exasperating. “Don’t tell me it’s hard for you to find someone to tuck you in bed at night.”

Merlin bends down in another stretch, taking in a deep breath, then straightens up with a long exhale, his face a little flushed. Arthur feels a little flushed, too.

“I’m picky,” Merlin says with a shrug, putting his vest back on and buttoning it. “But I think there could be someone. He’s just busy being too stubborn to accept the inevitable.”

Arthur tries to keep his expression inscrutable as he suggests, “That’s very stupid of him.”

Merlin smoothes his vest and says with a soft smile, “I know. Tell that to him.”

******

Percy and Kilgharrah walk into the room without knocking, startling the shit out of Merlin, who jumps and grabs at his chest.

“The fuck are you doing, bursting into my room like that?” he yells.

Percy blinks. “Sorry, boss.”

“Boss my arse, if you can’t learn simple manners,” Merlin rants. “What do you want?”

“Just letting Kilgharrah know that the organizer of this event, Sophia, has been a real pill,” Percy says.

Merlin tilts his head. “How so?”

Kilgharrah waves dismissively. “Nothing I can’t handle, Merlin. I’m taking care of this.”

“Bollocks. What does she want?”

Kilgharrah sighs, like it’s Merlin’s fault that no one trusts him here. “One of the guests has made a special request. For a price, of course,” he explains.

Right, of course, it’s a charity event, after all, and the main attraction here is suits, with big wallets and small dicks, who act like it.

“Merlin, you don’t have to,” Arthur says, stepping closer to him.

Merlin looks through Arthur, thinking, then turns to Kilgharrah. “Tell her--”

He’s interrupted by a loud knock on the door. A young woman charges in a moment after. She’s about five-feet-three with heels, blonde hair in a low bun, librarian-style glasses on a powdered-pink nose, peachy, pouty mouth; she’s dressed in a gray pant suit, fitting her perfectly. She’s holding a tablet, typing on it at mad speed as she enters the room. She tears her attention from the tablet, her eyes searching the room and pinning their gaze on Merlin.

“Oh, great,” she says by way of greeting, and goes straight to Merlin. She walks with a wind of force in her step, unexpected for a woman of rather delicate stature, like she’s ready to conquer a fortress. She holds out her hand. “Sophia Sid. I’m the organizer. We've met last month at your house. The party."

“Good evening, Ms. Sid.” Merlin smiles, shaking her hand, but his smile is wary. “Pleasure to see you again.”

Sophia doesn’t waste any time and starts talking, ignoring everyone else in the room. “The dinner’s already in full swing. We’re on the second course, and the guest speakers are all lined up, but one of them couldn’t make it.” Her voice is honey and steel, beguiling and lofty, while she hooks her arm over the frowning Merlin. “Walk with me, Mr. Emrys. I’ll need your help to fill in for the speaker-in-absence and your cue is in just a couple of minutes. I have a few necessary details to share with you.”

“I need to talk to you, too,” Merlin manages to say.

“Excellent."

On the way out, she sends Arthur the sweetest smile, finally acknowledging him, and turns back to Merlin. “Now, Mr. Emrys, one of our patrons has requested something very specific. He wants you...”

The door closes behind them.

 _Wait a minute,_ Arthur thinks, blinking off sudden sluggishness. That’s not how it works. She’s not supposed to just waltz in and practically steal his client from under his nose.

Percy is standing in the middle of the room with a similar half-lost expression. “I’m telling you.” He finally wakes up. “She’s _weird_. So bossy.” He shivers.

“Arthur.” Kilgharrah condescendingly flicks Arthur in the cheek with a finger. “You better go follow Merlin, don’t you think?”

Arthur has a lot of thoughts running through his head at the moment. Several of them are directly connected to Kilgharrah’s smug, patronizing face that won’t shut up, and how Arthur wants to directly connect his fist to it, despite the man’s respectable age. But he has no time for Kilgharrah.

Any other time, in the field, Arthur’s immediate reaction would be to take his gun out. He has to push the reflex down, thinking he’ll be wildly misunderstood if he walks out of this room into the restaurant full of people, gun at the ready.

“Percy. With me,” he snaps, flipping the gun holster at his hip open anyway, just in case.

Percy’s mouth forms a perfect “O”.

 _Jesus Christ, he’s still a kid,_ Arthur realizes. What is Percy even doing, thinking he could ever protect Merlin? More importantly, what Arthur was doing, thinking that Percy could be half-good at this with no proper training, no real-life experience? Loyalty and dumb muscle is a recipe for a disaster waiting to happen, and it will be all on Arthur, of course.

“Listen to me,” he tells Percy as they walk briskly through the hallway, pushing people out of the way. “I want you to cover me. We will catch up to Merlin and I don’t care what’s in the contract, I’m getting him out. And you must make sure that the path is clear on the way back. Do not engage in conversations. If someone starts arguing with you, ignore them. You understand?”

Arthur isn’t sure yet how he’s going to convince Merlin to leave, but fuck, he will find a way. Even if he has to throw the damn magician over his shoulder and carry him out.

******

 

It’s too late. By the time Arthur and Percival make it to the room, which is essentially a large, decorated banquet hall, Merlin’s already climbing the portable stage under the polite applause of the event’s patrons. One person whistles, to Arthur’s surprise; that’s not what he expects from the audience present.

Emrys seems to enjoy it. He squints at the bright lights of soffits, pointed to the stage from all angles, which again, surprises Arthur, given that Kilgharrah claimed the venue was changed at the last minute. That was probably another lie, and Arthur sincerely hopes this entire evening, which looks like a deliberate ambush more and more by the minute, doesn’t cost them serious consequences. Only now Arthur remembers that Merlin doesn’t have any props with him, and Percy hasn’t mentioned anything being ready.

He’s about to ask Percy about it when Merlin starts talking. His accent, which by now Arthur knows is actually from Northern Ireland, smoothed by years living in London, only adds to his charm.

There are several big screens hung on the walls and on both sides of the stage, showing Merlin’s every move.

“Good evening,” Merlin address the room. “I’d like to thank you all for coming here tonight and for allowing me to make a contribution for such an important cause.” He bows his head in thanks; people in the room murmur.

“I know the organizers of this event half-expected me to have your checkbooks levitate out of your pockets by magic, but that won’t be happening. Not tonight, and not by my magic. But I hope to make this evening special enough for you to find plenty of magic in your hearts to be generous with your support, in whatever form you feel is fitting.” He pauses and smiles. “Ms. Sid is waving at me over there, reminding me that she mostly prefers the support in the form of crisp notes with the face of Mr. Benjamin Franklin on them. All tax-deductible, of course.”

The camera pans out to find Sophia’s face in the room. She rolls her eyes, shaking her finger at Merlin, a polite grimace curving her mouth.

Another chuckle rolls through the audience. The camera returns to Merlin, who’s slowly walking across the stage, pushing the sleeves of his shirt higher. His eyes are downcast, jaw working, as if he’s considering his next move.

“I’ve heard that one of you had a specific request for me this evening,” he says finally, lifting his thoughtful gaze back to the audience. He brings his hand up to his eyes, looking around. “Where are you?”

Arthur can’t see it in the dark of the room, but he hears a chair scrape across the floor, and can make out a figure standing up with their hand raised.

“That was me,” a male voice announces.

“Thank you.” Merlin bows his head again with his hands clasped together. “Would you mind sharing your name with us?”

“Not at all,” the man says. “I’m Alator.”

“Nice meeting you, sir. I’m Emrys.” Merlin bows down again to everyone’s delightful laughter. Everyone knows that kissing their asses is a necessary, unavoidable, part of the act, but it doesn’t stop them from getting off on it. “I normally wouldn’t perform that particular magical act without serious preparations, but I take it that challenging me is what motivates you to offer an exceptionally generous donation tonight. Am I right?”

The man waves his hand again. “Absolutely.”

Merlin chews on his lip. “I accept your request on a condition.”

Arthur grinds his teeth, ready to walk right up on stage and end this masturbatory madness. The only thing that stops him from doing so is Merlin’s serene smile. He looks like he’s got this. Arthur inches closer to the stage.

“Name it,” the man says, his voice poised, clear.

“Ms. Sid,” Merlin calls for Sophia. “Could you please pass my note to Mr. Alator?”

In complete silence, and with the camera zooming in on her again, Sophia brings a folded piece of paper to the man calling himself Alator, her high heels tapping sharply on the hardwood floor.

For whatever reason, the spotlight doesn’t turn over to the Alator when she reaches him, and Arthur suspects it’s Sophia’s idea to keep the man unexposed, adding a mystery to tonight’s performance. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if Kilgharrah had a hand in this as well. Sophia helpfully points a small flashlight at the man’s hands as he unfolds the paper and reads it.

He murmurs something.

“Mr. Alator says he accepts,” Sophia announces.

“Thank you.” Merlin tilts his head, and Sophia moves back to her original spot.

“What’s the condition?” someone asks.

“Mr. Alator, do you mind telling everyone?” Merlin asks.

“Not at all. For Mr. Emrys’s trouble, and to support this tremendous cause, the magic act itself will be auctioned. It has to reach a reserved bid, set by Mr. Emrys himself. He will only perform the act if the bid reaches the reserve.”

“What’s the reserve?” a man sitting at the table in the back asks.

Merlin smiles. “I chose not to disclose it, so bid at your hearts’ desire; the sky’s the limit. Really,” he says. “It’s up there. You will have to really go for it.”

“What about Mr. Alator?” another man asks. “He seems to be getting off easy, if someone else is paying for the trick he wants to see so much.”

“Ah,” Merlin says. “There’s a catch. Mr. Alator has agreed to double the amount of the winning bid. So please, don’t make it easy for him.”

Arthur doesn’t know whether he wants to worship Merlin for his unselfish heart or strangle him for being stupid and agreeing to most likely an extremely dangerous act.

The crowd titters. Someone yells, “That’s very clever. I’m in!”

“Me, too! Me, three!” a few more voices are exclaiming.

Sophia makes a circle around the room, collecting the bids.

With all that, no one seems to notice -- and this was probably Merlin’s plan all along -- the change of a set on stage. By the time he walks back to the middle of the stage, the spotlight lagging half a second behind him like that’s been staged too, something’s waiting for him there: a table, no -- some sort of a tower at Merlin’s waist -- hidden under a black silk cover, lightly rippling as Merlin walks up to it. He pulls the cover with a slight move of his hand, revealing perfectly stacked fluted glasses in a pyramid shape, each glimmering-full of champagne, Arthur has no doubt.

The audience whispers, surprised.

Percy gasps behind Arthur. “How did he…”

Arthur would like to have the answer to that question himself.

Merlin moves on to throw the cover back over the glasses and turns to face the room. The camera shows him arching his brow as he glances at the tower as if asking, _What do you think I’ll do next?_

Arthur’s positive that just like him, everyone in the room is thinking the same thing: the glasses will disappear.

They do -- when Merlin pulls the cover away again. And really, it’s a neat trick, just not that unique.

Except.

Except, a moment later, a rumble goes through the room, and a few people issue surprised exclamations.

“What is it?” Percy asks, as if he’s never seen Merlin perform before, and leans heavily on Arthur’s shoulder. It complains instantly with an ache, reminding Arthur why they’re both really here.

“Focus, Percival.” Arthur shoves him back with his shoulder, ignoring the additional discomfort it causes him.

“Sorry, Arthur.”

“Don’t,” Arthur grits out, “waste time on useless talk.”

Percy shuts up.

Arthur turns his attention back to Merlin, who’s addressing the room. “Go ahead, drink up. Tell me what you think of the champagne.”

Merlin’s managed to materialize a flute full of champagne -- just like the ones he just had on the stage -- in front of each member of the audience.

Arthur has to agree with the applauding audience that this kind of stuff was not your average trick.

“Still very bubbly,” someone comments from the table by the opposite wall.

“Enjoy,” Merlin says. “As long as you’re not a designated driver, of course.”

He’s already doing something else, his pale, elegant wrists on display. He’s pushing his rolled-up sleeves even higher and shows his hands, palms up.

“No funny business,” he announces. “We’re all very serious people here.”

The audience chuckles, agreeing.

A piece of paper appears between his fingers, seemingly out of thin air. The camera focuses on his hands, showing them from several different angles on every screen, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Today’s technology doesn’t allow people of Merlin’s profession to make a lot of mistakes. All one needs to do is play back and take a screenshot of a bunny peering curiously out of the hat, unaware that it’s not its time yet.

“As you can see, this is just plain, white paper,” Merlin announces in his sexy accent. “Nothing inside.” He turns paper this way and that, showing it for everyone to see, and winks right at the camera. “Does anyone want to come on the stage and check it out personally?”

A young woman is standing up while still sipping on her glass. She raises her hand. “I’ll do it!”

Arthur tenses up, watching the woman’s every move like a hawk while she’s coming up to join Merlin.

The test goes swimmingly. The paper doesn’t reveal anything special upon inspection, but just like everyone in the room, Arthur’s holding his breath, enthralled by Merlin’s smooth movements and unwavering confidence while he deftly folds what looks like a paper plane. It’s hard to see anything else in the room but Merlin.

Arthur has to.

While Merlin’s working on finishing the plane, he throws out a couple more jokes, flirting with the young woman shamelessly, and she doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Her giggling is quite annoying, but Merlin seems to really like the reaction he’s getting. Arthur’s not going to be distracted by that, but he does take another step closer to the stage.

The room is still very dimly lit, mostly by the small candles on the tables. It irritates Arthur that he can’t make out every single person in the room, memorize every face, so he can track them down, if God forbid, it goes pear-shaped tonight.

“Go on,” Merlin says meanwhile, “Take it. Do you think I did a good job?”

The woman carefully turns it around, inspecting, and laughs. “Like a true aircraft designer.”

“Brilliant. Great. Thank you,” Merlin responds, beaming. “Now please hold it… like this…” Merlin adjusts the paper plane in the woman’s hand. “And go ahead and walk to the end of the stage for me. Love your dress, by the way. You look very lovely in it. What color is it? I’m quite color blind myself, unfortunately. I don’t even know the color of my own shirt.”

“Oh, no.” The woman giggles. “My dress is actually red. Your shirt’s purple. By the way, it suits you.” She stops at the end of the stage, close enough for Arthur to smell her sweet perfume from where he’s standing. “Is this where you want me?”

Oh great, she’s a shameless flirt, too.

“Yes,” Merlin says, moving to the opposite side, leaving a good twenty-five feet between them. “I want you right there. Thank you.”

The audience laughs, getting on with the puns and the flirting.

“Now. Why don’t we give it a good test,” Merlin says. “See if I really did a good job with it.”

“Do you want me to throw it?” the woman asks.

“Naturally. Make it fly,” Merlin confirms. “Just be careful with the steps behind you.”

“Which direction?” the woman asks.

“Why don’t you send it my way for starters?” Merlin suggests. “Give it a good throw.” He shows how he wants the woman to do it.

She takes a stand, making a few testing flicks with her wrist, and then sends the plane flying in Merlin’s direction. No one expects it, but she has excellent aim and the plane hits Merlin right in his chest.

Laughing, Merlin picks the plane up from the floor. “Looks like it’s working. My turn?” he asks. “Do you mind if I test it with you also? After such a great throw, I don’t want to embarrass myself here.”

“Sure,” the woman allows.

Merlin doesn’t just throw it. He places the plane on the palm of his hand, smile curling one corner of his mouth, and gives it a gentle blow of air. The plane gently takes off in the woman’s direction. As if by an invisible hand, it carries itself steadily in the air and flies, and flies, a few feet above the floor, slowly approaching the other side of the stage. When the woman tries to catch it, it swerves out of her reach, making her laugh, and circles around her, landing right on her shoulder.

It shouldn’t be possible, but that’s what it does.

The audience murmurs approvingly. The woman picks the plane up and gasps, looking down at herself. “What…”

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, his words laced with laughter.

“My dress.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” Merlin asks. “It looks the same to me. You still look very lovely.” He turns to the audience.

“It’s purple!”

“Oh my god,” the woman says, touching the fabric, pulling on the hem of the dress. “This is incredible.”

She looks up. “And you…” She points at him.

“What?” Merlin asks, looking down at himself, touching his naked arms, fixing his vest. “What happened?”

“Your shirt is red!” someone yells from the audience.

“Oh dear,” Merlin says, looking at the woman with almost genuine helplessness. “My bad. Now we have to fix it, don’t we?”

“How?”

With a smile growing on his face, he points at the plane in the woman’s hands. “We send our carrier to help. Does anyone else want to try?” he asks the audience.

Several hands shoot in the air. “Here! Here!”

“Do you mind?” he addresses the woman. “Please pass the plane to the second table to your right.”

The woman looks around, unsure if she has to throw it there, so Merlin suggests, peering down, “Why don’t you pass it on to the gentleman behind you? He’ll hand it over to the table.”

Even in dim light, Arthur can feel everyone looking in his and Percival’s direction. Arthur clears his throat and has no idea how to refuse Merlin. He glares at him as the woman hands him the plane and walks to the table with as much dignity as he can muster. The good news is he now has an excuse to linger there and he can see Merlin a lot better from this point.

“We got it!” someone says from the audience. “The chameleon fabric. It’s fascinating. For five-year-olds. How about that act we bid on? I’d like to see what’s that all about.”

Merlin stops laughing, his eyes turning to slits. The air in the room stills, and it feels like it’s a few degrees cooler. The woman’s dress turns back to red as she quickly steps down the stage, but Arthur doubts anyone notices.

“It will be my pleasure,” Merlin says in a wooden voice. He fastens up his shirt, which is also back to purple, and rolls down his sleeves, buttoning them back with precision. “Ms. Sid,” he asks. “Did we receive a bid reaching the reserve?”

“We did,” Sophia confirms from across the room. “Several.”

Arthur jerks forward, possibly making a protesting sound, he doesn’t really know, but Merlin, as if knowing exactly what Arthur’s about to do, throws his hand up in warning.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, giving the audience a dry smile. “And now…” The smile disappears. “Mr. Alator, I’m all yours.”

Merlin freezes on stage like a statue, arms by his sides, and Arthur knows right there that this evening has just turned to complete shit.

"Percy," Arthur orders, and Percy slips out of the room from the back door.

******

Everything seems to switch to slow motion: two people from the wait staff bring one chair and a ladder on the stage; god knows where that one came from. Sophia walks up to Mr. Alator's table. He opens a briefcase, which he evidently kept at his feet, and hands Sophia something covered with a piece of red fabric. Sophia makes a production of ceremoniously delivering that to the stage and passing it to one of the helpers. Once done, she slips to the side, taking a spot by the wall, crossing her arms on her chest. Merlin watches it all with an impassive gaze, not making any comments or asking any questions, like he already knows what to expect.

Merlin steps up on the chair, refusing an offered hand. The red fabric uncovers a tightly coiled rope and what looks like a black leather strap. The rope is unwound and tied around Merlin’s ankles first and in such a way that he can spread his feet a little, but not more than a foot wide. Still silent, he extends his hands, joined at the wrists, to let them be bound with the same rope. The end of it is pulled up and wrapped several times around his torso and shoulders. A black leather strap is fastened on Merlin’s neck like a collar, and the rope is passed through a loop on it and secured with a knot.

A murmur in the crowd rolls and dies down into mesmerized silence as everyone watches one of the helper guys climb the ladder to pull the rope attached to Merlin’s collar up, throwing and securing it over one of the ceiling beams, the end of it hooked to the back of Merlin’s chair.

If this is some kinky version of a famous Houdini act, Arthur’s not down with that twist, ready to call the whole idiotic thing off, free Merlin out of the ropes, and end what looks like a terrible, terrible idea. But Merlin doesn’t act like he needs to be rescued. He’s cooperative, calm, quiet, his chest rising softly with every breath, and when Alator asks from his table, “Ready, Mr. Emrys?” Merlin tilts his head in assent to…

Fuck. A scarlet-red scarf is being pulled over his mouth and tied behind his neck. Even if Merlin wanted to back out, there’s no dignified way to do so now.

The ropes and knots are checked and double-checked in theatrical fashion. One guy picks up the ladder and leaves the stage; another looks up at Merlin and asks something in such a low voice, it’s indecipherable. Merlin blinks and nods his head. The picture on the screens around the room changes to a counting-down clock. Two minutes -- that’s all Merlin’s given to free himself. He’s securely bound and it’s an extremely challenging task, but not impossible, and if anyone can do this, it’s definitely Merlin. Arthur relaxes minutely.

But of course, Merlin can’t have it _that_ easy. As soon as the clock starts running, the guy remaining on stage turns Merlin’s chair sideways and presses something in the floor at his feet. The middle of the stage jerks with a start and begins to move, like a treadmill track, the chair and Merlin with it, Merlin’s body jerking in reaction to being pulled from where he’s fastened to the beam. The last helper exits the stage, leaving Merlin there alone on the slowly moving track that starts shifting him to the side of the stage, little by little. Merlin doesn’t waste time and begins manipulations with his fingers and wrists, trying to loosen the ropes that don’t want to give.

 _Jesus._ What happens if he doesn’t do it in time with the clock on the screen? Arthur makes two steps towards the stage.

“No one moves. Or the chair will move faster,” Alator orders in the dead silence, as if reading Arthur’s mind.

Spoiled, obnoxious prick.

Arthur doesn’t really care about him, but he stills to assess the situation again. The chair under Merlin's feet keeps moving, and it doesn’t look like Merlin’s making enough progress to rid himself of the rope before it pulls him up by his collar, and that’s too dangerous. They can only see his profile, half-covered by the scarf, but in complete silence, everyone can hear his harsh breathing through his nose.

One minute ticks by too quickly, blood in Arthur's ears pounding the seconds away, and the chair keeps shifting from under Merlin, leaving him struggling and straining, until he's left to balance on his toes. The room gasps when he almost loses his footing, but fights back to keep standing. His hands are still tied. Arthur wonders why Merlin doesn’t give it more force, why he won’t pull on the ropes more, until he realizes that the way he’s being bound, every pull means for the collar around his neck choking him more.

Thirty seconds… Twenty-nine, and if someone doesn’t do something, Merlin will either slip off the chair to a hanging or he’ll be strangled by the choker that’s already biting into his neck too deep.

A few people in the room start gasping louder; the same woman who was sharing the stage with Merlin just a few minutes ago vocalizes her distress, but not a single damn person, including that fucking asshole Alator, asks to stop the act. Of course, why would they? Money’s been paid. They came for a thrilling show, and it’s being delivered to them in the highest quality.

Eighteen seconds. Arthur still can’t see Merlin’s face, just that he’s straining his neck, making slight wheezing noises, and while it looks like he’s about to shake the rope off his wrists, his balance on the chair is too precarious to have enough leverage to go free before the tip of his toes lose the last of the support.

Seven seconds. Six. Five.  

There isn’t enough time for Arthur to make it on stage to catch Merlin before his fall and he makes the only decision he can at this time: he pulls the knife strapped to his ankle and throws it at the rope where it’s fastened to the beam. He grabs a steak knife from the table next to him and is already in motion towards the stage, paying zero attention to Alator making unhappy noises, when the fire alarm in the hallway starts wailing. _Finally,_ Percy’s done something useful. Sprinklers go off, raining down on the crowd. They yell in displeasure and flee the room, Sophia regulating traffic by the doors with cold preciseness of someone not being fazed by the course of events.

Arthur’s up on the stage, next to Merlin, who’s collapsed on the floor and lying on his side, the ropes already off his wrists and ankles, somehow. Arthur falls to his knees, quickly cutting the rest of it off. He unfastens the choker and starts patting and checking the hissing Merlin everywhere. Merlin shakes his head, trying to loosen the scarf covering his mouth. As soon as he pushes it down, he sits up, twisting out of Arthur’s touch, and spits out, “Get away from me, you bloody idiot. You ruined everything! Ouch…”

Merlin touches the side of his head and looks at his fingers, stained in red. “Am I bleeding?”

Arthur curses and grabs Merlin’s hand, looking at it. Yes, it’s blood. “Shit,” he mutters. “You need to lie down. Merlin, let me see.”

“I said stop it, Arthur,” Merlin insists, although he’s lying back down like he was told. “I’m fine.”

Someone towers over them -- Alator -- asking, “Is he all right?” He bends to point his finger to Merlin’s head, almost touching Merlin. “Do you need paramedics?” He doesn’t look an iota sympathetic -- curious, irritated, maybe -- or more like _amused._

Arthur pushes down a violent desire to break Alator’s fingers off. “Touch him, and the only person needing paramedics here will be you.”

Alator straightens, smacking his lips. “Well, I have to tell you, Emrys, I expected you’d be quicker, but you put on one a hell of a show. And just for that, I’ll keep my promise. You’ll have your money.”

Arthur’s about to tell him to fuck off, but Merlin grabs and squeezes his wrist, shaking his head. Alator leaves under Arthur's death glare.

The phone buzzes in Arthur’s pocket. It’s a text from Percy:

_\- The limo is outside. Where are you?_

“We’ve got to take you to a hospital, Merlin,” Arthur insists, pouring some water on the napkin he just snatched from the closest table, and trying to clean Merlin up. “You’re bleeding. I’m so sorry.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. It’s nothing. I must have scratched it on the nail or something when I fell and hit my head.”

“Jesus Christ. Merlin,” Arthur tries again.

Merlin sits back up, eyes flashing. “I said no. You’ve done enough damage for one night. I want to go home.”

He’s pushing himself off the floor.

Arthur rubs his face. “I should’ve stopped it sooner.” He hisses when Merlin pushes him hard on his shoulder, completely unexpected.

“How do I get it through your thick skull, that no, you shouldn’t have interfered!” Merlin yells.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Arthur asks. “A few more seconds and you would’ve snapped your neck. You almost died!”

Merlin shakes his head, stomping down the stairs. Arthur follows him and Merlin turns back to him. “You wanker. That would never have happened! I had it under control. This is my job we’re talking about, and you had no right to do what you did tonight. You humiliated me!”

Arthur’s robbed of his speech for a moment. What the hell? He chases after Merlin. “What are you talking about?”

Merlin raises his middle finger in the air and walks out the back door, slamming it right in Arthur’s face.

******

Arthur chases after Merlin and misses a tall man sneaking into the empty room through another door as soon as they leave. He climbs on the stage with the determination of a sniffer dog and goes straight to the spot where Merlin performed earlier. Groaning like someone who has just discovered a long-sought treasure, he drops to his knees in front of the bits lying there. He picks up a cut piece of rope, the red scarf that’s still damp from being in Merlin’s mouth, and the napkin Arthur used to wipe Merlin’s blood. He carefully places it all into a plastic bag, smiling, and leaves the room, hiding the bag under his hoodie.

******

The ride in the limo is quiet. Merlin’s curled into himself in the corner, eyes closed. Elyan’s eyes in the rear view mirror are full of terror and guilt.

“Where’s Kilgharrah?” Arthur asks.

“Stayed behind to deal with Sophia,” Percy supplies, rubbing his knee and not looking at Arthur. They don’t talk after that.

Like a shadow, Arthur follows Merlin out of the car and into the house. It’s his duty and already a habit to check it every night before turning in.

“Are you not done yet?” Merlin asks, standing on the stairs. “Haven’t practiced your impalement act enough tonight?”

“My what?” Arthur asks, tone mild, simply because he doesn’t want to argue with Merlin.

Merlin’s pale, his lips bitten raw, blood on his cheek, bruises on his neck. He’s his client, whom he failed tonight. He has no right to argue with Merlin.

“It’s a knife-throwing skill, Arthur. With people as targets. Do you enjoy it?” Merlin asks, watching Arthur finish the round on the first floor and climb the stairs to join Merlin.

“No, I don’t enjoy it,” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin reads it in Arthur’s voice -- a line drawn, beyond which this mocking stops being appropriate.

“Bollocks.” Merlin’s shoulders slump. “Why is it always…” He doesn’t finish, turns around, and walks away from Arthur.

Gwen comes out of Freya’s room, looking beat but stern. “Sh-shhh, what’s going on here?” She closes the door quietly and her gaze sharpens when it stops on Merlin. She muffles a yelp and reaches to Merlin's bruised neck. “Oh goodness… What happened to you?”

Merlin tilts away from her touch, grimacing. “It’s nothing. Occupational hazard. Leave it. How is Freya?”

Gwen purses her lips, but she probably already knows Merlin well enough not to press. She sighs. “Not great. It took me forever to calm her down tonight.”

Merlin nods. “I’ll go in.”

Arthur stays at his post by the door there for Merlin to come back. He rubs his shoulder absentmindedly.

“Arthur,” Gwen calls, touching his arm, a look of sympathy on her face. “You know I can help you with that.”

Arthur already knows that Gwen has been helping Merlin with Freya for years back when they lived in London; her attachment to the family grew so strong, she didn’t hesitate to follow them when Merlin decided to uproot their lives to chase his professional dream.

Arthur frowns. “Help me with what?”

“You think you’re hiding it well, but I can see when something is bothering someone. I mean physical pain, discomfort. A couple of sessions, and you’ll be like new,” Gwen offers, smiling softly.

“You mean needles?”

Gwen nods. “Among other things.”

Arthur shudders at the mere thought. Never has been a fan of needles. “No, thank you. I’m fine, Gwen, really. It’s an old injury that healed a long time ago.”

Gwen tsks knowingly. “Well, you know where to find me.” And adds, quickly, “Not tonight, obviously. I didn’t mean that I was going to see you this late in the evening.” She babbles. “Best tomorrow, or the day after. At the scheduled time.”

Arthur suppresses a chuckle. “It’s fine, Gwen. I get it.”

Gwen sighs, blushing a little. “I have terrible open mouth, insert foot disease.”

“Have you tried needles?” Arthur suggests sympathetically.

“Oh, sod off,” Gwen says with a soft laugh. “All right, I better go. I trust you’ll take care of Merlin for me?”

Arthur nods.

Gwen leaves, and Arthur stays to wait for Merlin outside Freya’s room, like a dog for his master, shuffling from foot to foot. Ten more minutes tick by before Merlin slips out, sighing and picking at the hair on the side of his head.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls quietly. “Please let me look at it. I can clean it up and dress it.”

Merlin looks up, his eyes bloodshot, lost.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls again.

Merlin snaps out of his stupor. “Yes. Okay. First aid’s in the kitchen. I’ll go wash and will be in my room.”

Arthur stuffed the first-aid kit fresh himself, so he knows where it is.

Arthur remembers the first time he stepped foot into Merlin's bedroom and his surprise to find the walls of the room covered with books. What he was even more surprised about was that there was not a single poster or picture of himself anywhere, which Arthur fully expected. He didn’t spot one book about teaching magic tricks, but plenty on physics, aerodynamics, chemistry, biology, and what made Arthur smile the first time -- he found a whole shelf dedicated specifically to the topic of parenthood.

Merlin sits on his bed, head lowered, and Arthur pulls a chair to sit in front of him. He adjusts the neck of the nightstand lamp to point at them. “Let me see.”

Merlin turns and tilts his head towards the light with a sigh. Arthur carefully inspects around the wound. There’s some blood already caked in his hair, but not much of it.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” Arthur says after cleaning it up.

“Blimey.”

Arthur hears a smile in Merlin’s soft voice.

“I was secretly hoping for at least a few, to be honest.”  
“You refused to go to the hospital,” Arthur reminds him, trying and failing to keep his voice stern. There’s something different in Merlin since he stepped out of Freya’s room. Pliant, edges smoothed out, muted. Maybe it’s just now hitting him. It’s been a hell of a day.

“I was angry with you.”

“Are you, still?” Arthur asks. If they have to talk about it, now is the best time.

Merlin touches the spot above his ear where Arthur’s applied antibacterial cream and looks at Arthur, his pupils huge. “I don’t know. Probably. I thought we had an agreement. You should’ve trusted me.”

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I’m sorry. I just… The way you were struggling with that choker around your neck--”

“Was an act. Alator was right. They paid the money. Good money, Arthur, and I had to put on the show.” Merlin pauses and shakes his head, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “And if you think this was serious” --he points at his injury-- “wait until Kilgharrah comes here. I’ll be lucky if I still have my head after he’s through with me. And with you.” His eyes crinkle. “He’ll probably sack you. He’s sacked people for a lot less than a completely botched show.”

Arthur scratches his head, agreeing, “That’s a possibility.”

Merlin leans forward and whispers, “Don’t worry. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Arthur snorts. “How would you, without your head?”

Merlin winks. “I’m a world-famous magician, am I not? I have my ways.”

“Your head is definitely bigger than the average, Merlin,” Arthur states.

They both laugh and then sit quietly for a while, Arthur reliving the events of the day, cataloging where he went wrong and what he wouldn’t change.

Merlin rises to his feet, heaving out a breath, and starts unbuttoning his vest with fingers that normally are fast and nimble but don’t seem to cooperate tonight.

Arthur is up as well. “Let me help,” he offers softly. And Merlin drops his hands.

His eyes stay on Arthur’s face while he lets Arthur pull the vest off his shoulders and start working on the buttons of his shirt. Looking at the bruises coloring the pale, delicate skin of Merlin's neck hurts Arthur almost physically, so he concentrates on the row of buttons slowly revealing more skin, chest smattered generously with dark hair that he wants to touch but doesn't dare.

“Hey, Arthur?” Merlin asks after a full minute of silence as he’s being divested of his shirt.

He licks his lips with an expression that stops Arthur from finishing the job. Arthur’s heart makes a swoop in his chest. He swallows.

“Hmmm?” he asks and turns around to find where to put Merlin’s clothes.

Merlin grabs him by his wrist. “Are you going to tuck me in tonight?” he asks quietly. His smile is unsure, but his grasp on Arthur is firm, expectant, and Arthur is not going to lie -- he wants to. He wants to, but--

He smiles. “Not tonight.”

Merlin smiles back and nods. He turns around, pulling down his slacks, his perfectly shaped backside in briefs and long legs on display for a short, beautiful moment before he dives under the covers and tugs them up to his chin. This, almost-timid side of Merlin, is something new to Arthur, unexpected. How many different sides does this man have? Arthur wishes he could stay and find out, take his time peeling Merlin’s layers one by one until the sun is up again, until nothing is left but Merlin, bare and attainable, for him.

Arthur leaves, resolved to never let it happen.

******

Mordred is waiting for Arthur at the base of the stairs, a small smile on his lips. "Hi, Arthur. You're never here this late. Did something happen?"

Arthur considers his response and shakes his head. He'll let Merlin share the details of the evening with his friends.

Mordred's face brightens. "That's good. Um..." He brushes a finger across the banister, darting a glance at Arthur and dropping his eyes. "Would you like some tea?"

Arthur would like two fingers of the strongest scotch, if that were on the table. He smiles. "Thank you, Mordred. It's been a long day, so I better turn in. Please make sure to lock up after me."

Mordred's expression falls. "Oh, yeah. Okay. Sorry, Arthur."

Arthur hums. "That's fine. I appreciate the thought, though. Kind of you."

Mordred perks up a little, taking a tentative step closer. "Maybe tomorrow?"

Arthur doesn't want to sound ungrateful, but he also doesn't have it in him to exchange more pleasantries tonight. So he settles on a, "We'll see."

Mordred looks like he's about to hug Arthur. Arthur isn't going to encourage that. Muttering, "Just... uh...lock up," he escapes.

******

 

“Okay, so, you’ll find it weird,” Leon tells Arthur when he calls him the next day, “but the tests on the evidence you provided were inconclusive.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur’s on his third of cup of coffee, feeling like he used to after a wild night partying, minus hangover. The curtains in Merlin’s bedroom haven’t showed signs of life behind them all day today, and Arthur wonders if he’s okay, if maybe he should go and check on Merlin…

“I mean,” Leon is saying, “it looks like fire damage, but there’s no trace of evidence that it was actually damaged by fire.”

Arthur shifts in his chair and changes the phone from one ear to the other. “I don’t understand. It’s not fire? Elyan has burns on his wrists. It’s not possible.”

“The boy can be lying,” Leon suggest.

“Leon, I’ve seen the scars. I’ve seen these kind of scars before. He’s not lying.”

Arthur hears Leon scratching the scruff on his face. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not a specialist in this kind of stuff, but my guy here says there’s no way it was spontaneous combustion. What’s even stranger is that there’s no evidence of smoke on the fabric. There’s no smell of it either. It looks like they are burns, but they don’t pass any standard tests for it to prove that fire caused that kind of damage. There's no residue of a single chemical registered on the fabric.”

“This makes no sense to me,” Arthur says after a pause.

Leon sighs. “You and me both, pal. I’m sorry.”

So, a dead end again.

“And the latest letter?” Arthur asks.

“Still processing. My guys are backed up. I was able to get a quick response on the boy’s clothes only because the case seems a bit unusual.”

Arthur hums, thinking. “I do have something else that I’d like you to check for me.”

“Man, I actually have real work to do,” Leon complains. “It’s not all about Dunkin Donuts and second-hand coffee here.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur assures him. “Next time at the pub, two rounds on me.”

“When is that going to happen?” Leon grumbles.

“Soon, I swear.”

“Fine, what do you need?”

“I want you to look up the name Alator for me. Early-to-mid 60s, bald-headed, loaded.” Arthur gives Leon a quick rundown of the night before.

“Hmmm. And you think it’s your stalker why?” Leon asks.

“I don’t think anything, but I have to check every possibility.”

“Give me twenty.”

It takes valiant effort for Arthur to stay put instead of driving to the station to make sure personally that Leon does what he promised. To kill the time, Arthur turns on TV. Some daytime chat show is on. 

“This is how you rob a bank, folks!” the host of the show announces. “If you want to do it thoroughly, do it in true Harry Potter style. Check this out.” A CCTV camera footage shows an enormous, round door that must weigh a ton, slowly open on its own into a what looks like a bank vault.  “Do you see anyone?” the host asks behind the camera. “Yes? No? Neither do we. “What is it? Magic? An invisibility cloak?” the host jokes. “There are no signs of breaking and entering. However, approximately four million galleons. ahem… dollars went mysteriously missing last evening from that vault. Of course the police is looking for suspects or anyone who can shed any light on this strange incident. The question ‘whodunit’ is on everyone’s lips, and there are also those, who’re suggesting that the question is not ‘who’, but 'how'. What do you thi--”

Arthur snorts and turns the TV off.

Leon calls him back in forty as Arthur watches on the security feed Elyan rolling up to the house and opening the door for Kilgharrah. Shit.

“What have you got for me, man?” Arthur asks without any preamble.

“Impatient, sweetheart?” Leon chuckles. “Well, I don’t think this Alator’s your guy.”

“How so?” Arthur gets up to see Kilgharrah walk into the main house, and he’s torn, unsure whether he should go in to Merlin’s rescue, or stay put until the storm is over. What are the chances the geezer forgets about Arthur?

“For starters,” Leon says, “your Alator was not in the country the week your stalker broke into your client’s house. And if that’s not a good enough alibi for you, I have something even better.”

Judging by the smugness in Leon’s voice, this is going to be good. Arthur waits for the punch line; Leon deserves to enjoy one for all the work he’s doing.

“Your Alator hasn’t been able to get it up since nineteen ninety-nine, if his medical records at Cedars-Sinai are anything to go by. The guy can’t even shoot any, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Arthur rubs his face.

“He’s just an old, impotent asshole, Arthur, who apparently loves tying up young, pretty boys and putting them in collars on display. Maybe that’s his only release left.”

Arthur shudders. “The world we’re living in, friend.”

Leon sighs. “Tell me about it. Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

Arthur’s familiar with the sentiment.

“Don’t forget, Pendragon,” Leon adds. “You owe me a couple. I suggest next Friday. I'll call Gwaine.”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur says, looking up at Merlin’s bedroom window, the curtains still shut. “I’ll be there.”

He might have a lot more free time by then, if he’s “sacked”, using Merlin’s premonition.

There’s only one way to find out.

*******

 

“A moment, Mr. Dragoy.” Arthur catches up with Kilgharrah as the old man leaves the house.

“Ah, Arthur. Great to see you,” Kilgharrah greets him, flashing his yellow teeth in a wide smile. He doesn’t look upset or perturbed in the slightest after visiting Merlin.

“Why did you let Merlin do a show yesterday?” Arthur asks, deciding that offense is the best defense. “Why did you keep the truth from him all this time? You made me a promise.”

“Because I know my client better than anyone else and I know what’s best for him,” Kilgharrah answers in a tone brooking no argument.

“Lying to your client is not what’s best for him,” Arthur insists.

“And you have lived all your life in complete honesty, is that right? Never withheld information about yourself?” Kilgharrah asks, and Arthur already regrets this whole conversation, but he’s here and he’s got nothing to lose. For the most part.

“If I haven’t disclosed something willingly to someone, it wasn’t their business to know,” he says firmly.

“That’s what you think,” Kilgharrah tells him. “What if you did say something that could change someone’s life for the better? Ever considered that? You don’t see that as cowardly?”

Arthur steps forward, sucking in breath. “I never…”

Kilgharrah waves it off. “Don’t worry, Arthur, I understand, but you see now that we all do our best. No one’s perfect.”

“This is not about me,” Arthur pushes, although Kilgharrah’s words still smart. The old man is excellent at delivering low-blow punches without skipping a breath. “It’s about Merlin’s safety.”

“I know. That’s why you’re here, aren’t you?”

“So,” Arthur asks. “You’re not firing me after yesterday?”

Kilgharrah makes the face of a person who’s busy but will indulge Arthur because he has no choice. He crooks his finger for Arthur to come closer. “Look. Merlin has always had a mind of his own. I can influence it, but I can never make him do what he doesn't want. All right? I hired you because you could do the job. I'm keeping you because he likes you. He respects you." That doesn't have anything to do with anything, but Kilgharrah pays no heed to Arthur's indignant snort and continues, "Merlin is attracted to you, if you haven’t noticed. Which means he'll listen to you, and you work for me. Don’t you see? This is a perfect arrangement. Why would I fire you?"

Arthur sees white, his hands curling into fists, he’s so livid. “You--”

“Please, Arthur, let’s skip the drama. I know you like him, too.”

“I don’t… It doesn’t.. It has nothing to do…” Arthur sputters.

“So, you’d prefer that I fired you?” Kilgharrah asks, mouth curving into a smirk. “Do you trust anyone else to protect Merlin?”

Arthur lowers his eyes to the ground, tilting his head away from Kilgharrah’s knowing gaze.

Kilgharrah huffs out a laugh. “That’s what I thought. Then we still have an agreement.” He starts walking towards the limo with the engine already running, then pauses. “But yes, Merlin’s about to catch the biggest break in his career and if you mess something up for me and him again, I _will_ fire you. Neither of us want that to happen, including Merlin, I’m sure, but I doubt he’ll forgive you for standing in the way. So please think about that. Good day to you, young man.”

Arthur has no other response but to nod and step back.

*******

 

Arthur’s job is the best excuse to be around his client even when his client doesn’t necessarily require it -- when he’s doing countless laps in the pool in the complete privacy of his well-protected home, for example. Arthur’s still here -- in the lounge chair, reading an article about gun-shooting safety on the tablet, new shades perched on his nose -- and pretending he isn’t noticing Merlin pretending he isn’t showing off his breaststroke. It becomes a sort of a game that borderlines on torture, at least for Arthur -- to act like he doesn’t care about Merlin’s lean, agile body moving so seamlessly in and out of the water, the long lines of his gorgeously curved back glistening in the sun, or the allure of the round, pert shape of his ass in a tiny black Speedo barely holding on to his hips by some divine miracle. He still can’t help his gaze drifting away every minute from the tablet’s screen to the pool with Merlin and his fast hands, powerful glide, and methodical breathing.

When Merlin finally finishes his practice and pulls himself up and out of the pool, he shakes himself off like a dog, young, long-limbed, and crackling with bright energy. He drags a towel to his face, water still dripping and pooling around him, and Arthur snaps his slack jaw closed. Merlin’s stunning and knows it, smirk badly hidden as he wipes himself off.  

For a long minute, they both act as if it’s business as usual and neither one’s going to acknowledge the other person’s presence. Merlin breaks the silence first.

“You should use some sunscreen. Your face is turning pink.”

It’s not concern Arthur hears behind Merlin’s words, but pure smugness, which makes Arthur, who never blushes, blush even more, caught helplessly staring at the man whom he shouldn’t be daydreaming about, especially on the job.

Arthur snorts into his tablet. “I have pretty thick skin. You’re the one with…” He waves without looking at Merlin. “... all those freckles.” He regrets it the instant he says it.

And Merlin’s in front of him not a beat later, bold enough to touch a finger to Arthur’s chin to raise it up and search Arthur’s eyes. “You bring up my freckles and then talk about how tough you are. Do you know how confusing that is?”

Arthur frowns, leaning away. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Merlin sighs but doesn’t step back. “I should’ve asked you to join me in the pool; are you a good swimmer, Arthur?”

“It’s one of the required skills,” Arthur supplies. Not comfortable sitting down while Merlin towers over him, he stands up.

“That’s not what I asked,” Merlin says.

“I might not be as fast as you are,” Arthur admits, “but my endurance is good.”

A smile spreads wide on Merlin’s face. “I should’ve definitely invited you to join me. Wanna go in now?”

Arthur makes his best effort not to flick his eyes all over Merlin to give away how much he would’ve loved that, but it can’t happen. He keeps an impassive expression.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. I believe you’re on a schedule.” He glances at his watch.

“But it wasn’t a no,” Merlin says, softer.

Arthur doesn’t have a response to that.

“It’s all right. I’m kind of glad we’re not in the pool.” Merlin says, words curling off his tongue and swirling around Arthur, bewitching him.

“Why?” Arthur asks, although he knows he shouldn’t.

Merlin leans even closer, whispering this time. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself, and you like to be courted, don’t you?”

Arthur’s not sure how Merlin does it -- he just keeps chipping away at Arthur’s armor, making more and more cracks, slowly, surely seeping under Arthur’s skin and planting himself there, no matter how hard Arthur tries to resist.

Merlin huffs softly, knowingly, and steps back with the expression of a person who’s damn satisfied with himself.

“You’re going to be late,” Arthur repeats, this time meeting Merlin’s eyes willingly, head on.

The moment is broken by Mordred’s voice. “Merlin? Freya’s asking after you before you go.”

Mordred’s standing in the door frame leading to the kitchen, a cup in his hand. His eyes flick from Arthur to Merlin and back to Arthur, and he purses his lips. “Still don’t want any tea, Arthur?” he asks.

Arthur doesn’t like Mordred’s tone, but after noting Mordred's defensively hitched-up shoulders and nonchalant sip from his cup while looking at him, Arthur lets it go.

“Thank you, Mordred. It’s too hot for tea right now.”

“I’ll say,” Merlin murmurs, and then, louder, says, “Tell Freya I’ll be right there. I just need to finish something with Arthur here.”

Mordred lingers in the door frame for a few more seconds before leaving.

Merlin grabs his robe from the chair next to Arthur’s and turns to him.

“Look, Pendragon,” he says with more decisiveness in his tone, earning Arthur's instant and full attention.

Arthur’s been called by his last name pretty much his entire adult life, so it’s not like hearing it now should bother him. It’s the fact that Merlin has never addressed him like that before, and the way he says it, a sound foreign from his mouth and so fucking suggestive, Arthur’s afraid that if he doesn’t maintain a neutral expression, Merlin will know that he might have just discovered Arthur’s weak spot. Arthur _likes_ the way his formal name sounds from Merlin’s mouth, and if it were up to him, he’d make Merlin repeat it, coax it from him, tease and draw it out of him again and again.

Merlin tilts his head. Oh, he _knows_. He takes his time wrapping himself into the ankle-length robe and tying it around his waist, fingers pulling it and twisting it with such a nimble, graceful ease, Arthur wonders how the knot even appeared where it wasn’t just a blink ago.  

“I know I should’ve said it sooner, but…” He shrugs one shoulder lightly. “... thank you.”

“For?” Arthur asks, taken aback a bit by the turn of the conversation.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Merlin tells him. “And I’ll try to cooperate.”

“Really?” Arthur switches off his tablet, frowning. “What brought this on? Was Kilgharrah that brutal?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nothing to do with that old bastard."  He bites his lip in a moment of thought and gestures at the lounge chair. "Sit, okay?”

Arthur decides to wait until he knows exactly what’s on Merlin’s mind.

Merlin sighs and sits down, turning his face up. “I have a problem, you see. This minor little problem.”

Arthur sits down immediately. “Yes?”

Merlin looks at him with round eyes. “I like to go out in the evening.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything and Merlin goes on, “With a guy. You know. Like a date.”

Arthur clears his throat, looking at his own hands that seem too big and out of place, and nods.

“But I can’t go out on a date, Arthur,” Merlin continues. “Because you’re with me every minute of the day.”

“Not every minute,” Arthur says, just to point out that Merlin’s prone to exaggeration.

Merlin ignores that and asks, “What if my date decides to invite me up to his place? Will you go up with me, too?”

Arthur doesn’t like where this is going. He doesn't like the suggested scenario about a date with some guy, nor does he want to think about keeping guard at some place while Merlin is… Nope, Arthur is going to call Kilgharrah immediately and put a stop to any evening plans Merlin might have with some random people for the foreseeable future. It’s not safe. It’s a total and unacceptable breach of security Arthur will not authorize.

Like Merlin is going to ask for permission or listen to Kilgharrah, is Arthur’s next thought.

“Focus, Arthur.” Merlin clicks his fingers in front of Arthur’s zoned-out face to Arthur’s embarrassment. “I was saying that I figured out a solution.”

“A solution…” Arthur echoes and looks around. There’s no one in the perimeter but him and Merlin.

“Yes. The only option I have left,” Merlin says, licking his lips and smiling, “is for you to be my date and take me out.”

Arthur sits up, scratching his brow. “Um…” 

Merlin touches Arthur’s knee; a brush of a finger and he retreats, dropping his gaze down and looking just like he looked the other night, covering himself with the blanket up to his chin.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s what I was wondering.” His eyes trail from the pool back to Arthur’s face, linger on his lips, before meeting Arthur’s eyes. There’s no bravado left in there; they are soft, uncertain.

“I mean, what do you think?” he says, fixing his robe tighter on his chest, and adds, “Only if you want to.”

Arthur’s too out of sorts and too out of his depth to answer.

Merlin groans. “Oh god, this is embarrassing… I’m gonna go, okay? You decide.”

Merlin lingers there for another moment before bolting out of the chair and into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"I have to warn you," Arthur says as Merlin and he approach a popular local Irish pub on foot; Merlin had insisted on walking, refusing to use the limo, and Elyan took it to the carwash. "My friends aren't exactly conventional people."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "It was your idea and we already talked about this, Arthur. I’ve met your friends before."

"I know, but that wasn't them in their usual setting. While this" -- Arthur opens the door to the pub for Merlin -- "is their natural habitat."

Arthur doesn't get to add another warning that no, really, they are a bunch of assholes, beware, because Leon notices them and raises a bottle of beer in greeting. "Here comes my free ticket. Over here, Arthur!"

Although introductions are not necessary, Arthur starts to remind Merlin who is who. “Leon here -- he helped with the control room at the house and the new gate installation. And this is--”

“--Gwaine. I know,” Merlin says brightly, shaking each man’s hand.

“Right,” Arthur agrees. “The security cameras.”

Merlin waits for Arthur to sit down before taking a spot next to him, their knees touching. Arthur smooths his hair, glancing at Merlin, who acts like it’s nothing.

“I know him from before that, actually,” Merlin says. “Are you still with Morgana?” he asks Gwaine.

Gwaine grins. “That I am.”

“He’s probably adding something to her food,” Leon suggests. “There’s no other explanation why would she tolerate this fool for this long.”

“One doesn’t kiss and tell,” Gwaine drawls, sprawling in his seat. “Also, I have magic hands.” He wiggles his brows.

Everyone laughs.

“Hey!” Arthur jerks the table to draw attention. “First of all, that’s my sister we’re talking about.”

Merlin’s head snaps up. “What--”

“Yes, exactly,” Arthur comments, jabbing the table with his finger. “That’s what I want to know. How do you know my sister?”

“It’s a small world here, Arthur,” Leon suggests, not being terribly helpful.

“Shut it,” Arthur snaps. “Merlin?”

“Morgana is my PR manager, and this guy--” Merlin points at Gwaine “--has been her arm candy to every event I’ve seen her attend. He eats like a horse, he laughs like a donkey, and he'd talk to a plant if no one else would listen. Everyone knows Gwaine.”

"And everyone loves me," Gwaine supplies.

Merlin laughs. "True."

Arthur glares at Gwaine, then at Merlin. “And neither of you cared to mention this before? That Morgana works for Merlin?”

Gwaine shrugs. “That’s Morgana’s business, not mine. Why would I mention it?”

Merlin pulls his wallet out of his pocket, equally undisturbed by the events. He checks inside and puts it back. “I had no idea you're related, but it explains some things.”

“Explains what?” Arthur demands.

“Morgana was the one who shared your file with me. I see now who her source is."

"That doesn't bother you?" Arthur asks. That bothers _him_. God knows what Morgana shared in that file.

"It doesn't. From my almost two years being in the LA scene, I’ve already learned that everyone knows everyone here, and half of them are related. A lot of family ties in this business.”

“And you’re not worried--” Arthur starts to ask.

“Look, can we just try to have a nice, relaxing evening? No talk about Morgana?” Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s knee. “I’m not worried you’ll take advantage of me. You’re not that kind of a person.”

Arthur hates that his cheeks feel warmer and it’s probably clear how embarrassed and flattered he is by this simple compliment.

“You don’t know me,” he mutters, avoiding the curious, obnoxious mugs of his friends, who are obviously enjoying witnessing this exchange.

“I know you enough,” Merlin says softly. “Now please, let me go back to courting you, like I promised.”

“We might have a keeper here,” Gwaine whispers to Leon loudly.

Now, Arthur’s definitely blushing. “Would you please shut the fuck up?”

“After you buy me my beer, man,” Leon says, smiling. He winks at Merlin, who still hasn’t taken his hand off Arthur's knee and doesn’t look like he’s going to. “He owes me a couple, thanks to you and your freak-o stalker.”

“No shop talk tonight,” Arthur reminds him quickly.

“Hear, hear,” Merlin murmurs. “I’m gonna order drinks. Arthur, wanna join me?”

Gladly. Anything to escape the knowing, smug looks on his friends' faces and their smart-ass remarks about his date. Which he now realizes could go a lot more swimmingly if he hadn’t chickened out and decided to bring Merlin to spend the evening here, in a group setting. At least he’s learned something about Morgana, and she will most definitely hear what he thinks about her treacherous face tomorrow.

As he follows Merlin to the bar, his murderous thoughts are interrupted by someone’s loud laugh and he whirls around on pure reflex, shielding Merlin. Merlin chuckles and clasps his hand over Arthur’s arm, pulling him back.

“Look how jumpy you are,” he says gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. No one can do you any harm.”

Arthur blinks and then smiles. “Not your lines, Emrys.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You know what I’m thinking? How about we bring the drinks for the guys and get out of here?” He searches Arthur’s eyes. “Let’s rewind this evening and go back to the start, without your friends as a crutch. And you have to promise me something.”

Arthur tenses. “What’s that?”

“I want a real date. I want a classic, old-fashioned ‘film and dinner’ combo. And you’ll let me pay.”

Arthur helplessly glances back at his friends.

“No, Arthur,” Merlin says, placing a hand on his cheek, drawing his attention back to him. “Look at me. I’m here. I asked you out tonight.”

“I know,” Arthur says. He can’t handle the soft, almost sad expression Merlin’s wearing.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll understand,” Merlin continues, his eyes deep-blue and earnest.

“We’ll get the drinks, go back to the table, and I promise to have a lovely time. I’m in great company, after all.” He smiles, dropping his hand.

But that’s not what Merlin wants -- Arthur gets it. Merlin will back off, if what he’s asking makes Arthur uncomfortable, but then, would that be fair to him? Doesn't Merlin deserve better?

Doesn’t Arthur?

Wasn’t Arthur looking forward to this evening, like a schoolboy to a date with his crush? Then fuck it. It’s one date and they must do it exactly the way Merlin wants it.

With a smile, Arthur finds Merlin’s hand again and clasps it. “No. I’ve seen enough of those idiots for one evening already.” He points over his shoulder where his friends should be. “Let’s rewind. Movie, dinner. And I’ll even walk you home.”

Merlin brightens up. He bats his lashes. “What about a good-night kiss?”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

“It’s my date.”

Arthur shrugs. “That dinner better be something special, then.”

“Like nothing you’ve ever had before,” Merlin promises, and Arthur’s heart does a flip-flop in his chest, Merlin’s smile is so infectiously bright.

Arthur's definitely in trouble if just one of Merlin's smiles can make him this loopy, but it’s too late to back out. Arthur finds that he doesn’t want to, anyway.

 

*******

Merlin wanted something “classic” and he couldn’t have been more literal about it. They end up watching Casablanca on the rooftop of the outdoor theater with gorgeous views of the endless starry sky and the fabric of the city stretched out at their feet, full of dazzling lights. Not only are they provided with fairly comfortable camping chairs, s’mores right off the fire, and decent-quality beer, they each also get a blanket and a set of headphones.

Merlin looks proud of himself as he picks up his s’more sandwich. “So, how am I doing with the whole wooing-you business?” he asks before sinking his teeth into gooey goodness.

Arthur snorts softly. “Not bad so far.”

“Wanna bite?” Merlin offers, grinning, proudly showing a row of chocolaty teeth.

Surprisingly, Arthur doesn’t find it disgusting. He likes this: this carefree Merlin, the warmth they share under one blanket, the unassuming intimacy that isn't weighed down by implied expectations of how this evening should go and how it should end.

Arthur stops resisting whatever it is happening between them, because it'd be a crime otherwise -- to deny Merlin this simple pleasure. Still, he can’t resist pulling Merlin’s leg a little when he says, “I prefer popcorn, or nachos.”

“Nachos?” Merlin wrinkles his nose. “That unsavory, sticky rubbish that looks like plastic?”

With an impressively solemn face Arthur says, “Son, let me tell you a thing about nachos. You take fresh corn tortilla chips, cover them generously with cheddar cheese, mix in chunks of jalapenos and bell pepper, and heat it all up until it's bubbling. When done right, it's crispy, it's spicy, and it melts in your mouth.”

“More like _melts_ your mouth. It's disgusting, but--” Merlin bends down, fiddles under his chair, legs hidden under the blanket, and produces the largest bucket of popcorn Arthur’s ever seen. “How is that?”

Arthur’s in awe. “How did you…”

“Do you want it with butter or without?” Merlin asks, grinning.

Arthur blinks, and then smiles. “There’s a choice?”

“You forget I’m magic,” Merlin says, gesturing generously at the bucket. “So -- butter?”

Arthur nods. “Lots of it, please.”

Merlin lowers his eyes to whisper something into the bucket and hands it to Arthur. “Voila! Enjoy.”

Arthur accepts it with slight apprehension, even sniffs it.

Merlin pouts. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest,” Arthur announces and tosses a handful into his mouth. The popcorn is still hot, crunchy, with just the right amount of salt and butter; Arthur’s unable to suppress a satisfied groan.

Merlin smiles. “Do you trust me now?”

Arthur reaches out and wipes a smear of chocolate off Merlin’s chin. “You’re on the right path.”

Merlin leans into the touch and closes his eyes, smiling. Arthur catches himself on the thought that he wouldn’t mind seeing this happy, grinning Merlin every day. He could get used to it if he lets himself.  

Of course, Merlin knows every line of the movie and mimes every word throughout.

“How many times have you watched this movie?” Arthur asks as the credits roll.

Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to leave yet, either. “I dunno. Sixty-two times?”

“Sixty-two?” Arthur laughs.

“Okay, maybe not,” Merlin agrees. “But I’ve seen it a lot. Have you never seen it?”

“Snippets when I was a kid, I think,” Arthur admits.

“So what did you think?”

Arthur considers his answer. “I wouldn’t trust Ilsa if I were Rick, either. But he’s resilient. He’ll be all right.”

Merlin unwraps himself from the blanket and gets up. “That’s all you took from this film? What about great love? For the country? For someone special in your life? What about the sacrifice Rick ended up making?”

Arthur rises to his feet, too. Even in the dark, he can see Merlin’s eyes bright with passion and belief.

Arthur fondly brushes the knuckles of his loose fist across Merlin’s jaw and says in a low voice, mimicking Rick, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

All feistiness goes out of Merlin. He clasps Arthur’s wrist. “Are you saying I’m your Ilsa?”

Arthur thinks it’s funny and snorts. “Sure. And we both know who you’re married to.”

“Who?”

Arthur tilts his head and corrects himself. “Or what.”

Merlin opens his mouth and closes it.

“It’s all right, Merlin. Don’t let anyone ever take that away from you. I can see that your talent, your magic, is who you are.”

Merlin sways a little. He swallows. “You have no idea, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, smiling. “As long as _you_ do.”

 

*******

Without discussing it, they do some walking around, surprisingly undisturbed by any nosy fans, and take a taxi back home, ending up in Arthur’s bungalow. Merlin makes two cups of tea in the kitchen, acting like he’s at home, which technically he is.

“You’re more comfortable here, huh? No one can get past you.” Merlin points at the wall, behind which is the office serving as a mini control room, with monitors showing feed coverage of the main house, with the exception of Merlin and Freya's bedrooms. Merlin had made them off limits, end of discussion.

Arthur grimaces. “It’s not that. If someone wants to swap his life for a kill, no one can stop him.”

Merlin sits down and pushes a cup towards Arthur. “Great. Then what did Kilgharrah hire you for?”

Arthur shrugs. “They might get me instead.”

Merlin sips from his cup, a smile quirking his lips. “And you’re ready to die for me?”

“It’s the job,” Arthur replies calmly.

Merlin stops mid-sip. He shifts forward. "You’d really do it?”

Arthur nods.

“Why?”

Arthur smiles. “I'm shit at magic tricks.”

Merlin laughs and kicks his foot under the table. “I still don’t understand. You were a special agent, right?”

“Something like that,” Arthur mutters.

“Isn’t it more… I dunno... important? Exciting? Than protecting some wanker, I mean.”

Arthur snorts. “You mean someone like you?”

Merlin grins. “Yeah.”

“It’s a change of pace and perspective, for sure,” Arthur agrees. “But it’s also the matter of conditioning and discipline.”

Merlin makes a face. “Here we go again with that shite.”

“What do you want me to say?" Arthur asks. "Would I prefer to continue to serve? Yes... Maybe.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, just sips from his cup some more, as if waiting for Arthur to crack further.

Arthur sighs and picks up his cup. “It wasn't the right place for me anymore.”

“Why?”

Arthur thinks about it. He used to think about it a lot, and there was only one answer. “Because I became too good of a liar.”

"Is this about your injury?"

Arthur scoffs, "My injury has nothing to do with it. It wasn't the first one in my career."

Merlin listens, his eyes staying focused on Arthur as if what Arthur has to say is the most important thing to him, that nothing else matters, and Arthur's struck by the sincerity he finds there. He's never really talked to anyone about this, and now he can't stop the words spilling out.

"That's just it: if I wanted to continue with my career, I had to pretend. The worst part was that my superiors knew. They knew my sexual preference; hell, I even had offers, but I wasn't supposed to talk about any of it. To anybody. Who I was had to stay secret. That's no life, Merlin."

Merlin drops his eyes to his cup and shakes his head. "You're right. It's not."

Arthur finishes his tea in silence and gets up to wash the cup. Merlin's right behind him when he turns around, standing close. He smells good: of clean cotton, like air right before the rain, like a freshly crushed cinnamon powder that reminds Arthur of a small market in the old town of Marrakesh, where he spent one November three years ago on a mission.  

"I think you've made the right decision, Arthur. I'm glad you did."

Arthur releases a breath he’s been holding for a little too long, shifts. “It’s good money,” he tries to joke, but Merlin isn’t smiling.

Slowly, Merlin leans forward, not lowering his gaze from Arthur, and places his cup in the sink behind Arthur. “You still haven’t unpacked, I noticed,” he says, not moving away, their chests almost touching.

Arthur clears his throat. “Maybe when I’m here long enough.”

Merlin takes his hand, lacing their fingers. “It’s been weeks.”

Arthur’s not moving, Merlin’s touch a hot wire through him. It’s been more than a few weeks for Arthur. Months. Not counting that one time at the rehabilitation center, with… Arthur doesn’t even remember the face of the guy who went down on him in the supply closet. None of that matters with Merlin here. Merlin’s face is in front of him, an inch away, his breath on Arthur’s cheek when he leans in and--

Arthur exhales shakily. “Merlin.”

“Yes, Arthur?” Merlin asks, feather-touching his lips along Arthur’s jaw. “Am I pushing it?”

Arthur brings his hand up, reaching for Merlin’s shoulder. If it was with intention to stop Merlin, it doesn’t work, because instead, his fingers find Merlin’s nape, twist up in his hair, pulling him closer. Merlin kisses his neck, softly, experimentally. Arthur’s other hand finds Merlin’s hip, slotting his hips against Merlin’s. It feels amazing -- the instant electricity of the contact of cock on cock, even through layers of clothes. Merlin’s hard and it makes Arthur want him almost painfully.

Merlin presses in, groaning softly against his ear, his hands finding Arthur’s waist. His tongue laps at the skin of Arthur’s throat, followed by a bite, and another -- lower -- at the collarbone. Arthur punishes him by tugging his hair, pulling a stuttering gasp out of him, and enjoying the fuck out of that sound -- startled, needy -- just what Arthur needs.

He gives in.

“It’s your date,” he says, mouth against Merlin’s jaw. He waits for Merlin to catch on to the meaning, and as soon as his eyes light up with comprehension, Arthur kisses him. Slots his mouth over Merlin’s, grinds his hips up into him, swallowing his moan, and moans in return when Merlin’s tongue, hot, slick, and maddening, finds his.

It’s all frenzied after. They grapple at each other, trying to twist out of clothes, nothing graceful or careful about it. Merlin’s elbow knocks Arthur’s cup off the counter to the floor. It smashes down with a bang.                                                                                   

“Leave it,” Arthur growls, giving Merlin’s bottom lip a sharp graze of his teeth.

“Shards,” Merlin warns, kissing him back.

“Later,” Arthur mutters, tossing the shirt somewhere into the corner of the kitchen.

 _Bed, now_ , he thinks the next moment, wistful about how far away his bedroom seems at the moment.

They are there, falling into his bed, before those words even form out of his mouth, and Arthur can’t care less if it seems strange -- the unnatural reality of it -- as long as he has Merlin where he wants him. Where he’s been adamantly refusing to toss up while watching the lights turn off in the windows to Merlin’s bedroom every night, sometimes stupidly jealous of the curtains that guarded Merlin’s sleep only a few feet away and a lot closer than Arthur thought he could ever be.

Merlin’s here, and is Arthur’s tonight to guard and protect.

Merlin rolls onto his back, pulling Arthur with him, and Arthur goes willingly, covering Merlin with his entire body.

“Arthur, off,” Merlin demands, tugging Arthur’s underwear impatiently. “Fuck, the things I’m going to do to you.”

If Arthur’s cock was interested before, now it’s stiffer than a crowbar.  

“Don’t fucking tease,” he grunts, falling back onto his knees in front of Merlin.

Merlin smirks. “You like it.”

They’re both naked, both hard, and Arthur takes in his fill of Merlin: his hair's a mess, eyes dark with lust, one hand stretched above his head, gripping onto the headboard, the other on his leaking cock, working it up and down. Bare and sprawled out, Merlin doesn’t exhibit an ounce of shyness tonight; he looks like he belongs here, in Arthur’s bed, and the way he looks at Arthur, eyes burning from under the lashes and lips parted--

“Can’t say that I don’t,” Arthur admits. “You know what else I’d like?”

“What?” Merlin asks, breath hitching when he gives his cock another tug.

“Stuffing you full of lube,” Arthur says, joining Merlin’s hand while pushing his legs apart with his knees, settling in between.

Merlin grins, then groans when Arthur passes a thumb over his leaking slit. “I’d rather be stuffed full of your cock.”

“Can do,” Arthur promises simply.

It is incredibly simple after that.

They kiss, changing the pace between crazed and drawn-out slow while jerking each other off. Merlin brings Arthur to the edge several times, stopping as soon Arthur starts snapping his hips forward, whispering, “Close, Merlin, fuck, so close,” while twisting two, then three lubed fingers in Merlin’s hole, paying back by grazing over Merlin’s prostate over and over.

“I gotcha,” Arthur murmurs when Merlin thrashes under him and moans. “I gotcha, kid... Just look at you. Beautiful.”

He slides into Merlin slowly, carefully, when neither can hold off anymore, when Merlin pleads with Arthur that if he doesn’t fuck him now, _Now, Arthur, you bloody tosser,_ he’ll snap his dick off and make a prop out of it. And groans again, eyes rolling into the back of his head once Arthur’s inside of him, taking a moment so he doesn’t come like a rocket the second his balls are in contact with Merlin’s ass cheeks. _God, Arthur, just fuck me already._

Merlin fucks like he performs his magic -- he is all in it, without reserve. And it’s good, so good, Merlin’s long legs over Arthur’s shoulders, hips lifting to meet Arthur’s every thrust, short gasps, words feverish. “Again”, and, “more,” and, “you made me wait. Why, Arthur?” And all Arthur can think in return is that it was so fucking worth it.

They come with Arthur driving deep into Merlin, groaning in pleasure, while Merlin jerks himself off, coming over them both, a splash landing on Merlin neck.

Merlin wipes it off, grinning leisurely, and offers to Arthur, “Dinner?”

“Fuck off,” Arthur suggests, grinning back, although he barely resists licking Merlin’s fingers clean.

Merlin laughs. “I promised you something special.”

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Arthur tells him, not exactly lying. He divests himself of the condom.

They wipe themselves off and slide under the covers, Merlin burrowing onto Arthur’s side.

He kisses Arthur’s shoulder, which gives Arthur an opportunity to breathe Merlin in once more, to try to remember him like this: warm and sated, and unconcerned with the world outside. At least for this evening.

“Tomorrow,” Merlin promises him, wrapping his arm over Arthur’s chest. “I’ll take you to a proper dinner tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure,” Arthur says. “Tomorrow.”

He rubs soothing circles on Merlin’s back, and tries not to think that the reality is that tomorrow will be another day, and nothing will change. No matter how much magic was shared between them tonight, Merlin cannot, will not belong to Arthur in the morning.

 

******

Arthur’s fully dressed. In iron-pressed slacks and shirt, his shoes polished to an obscene degree, he’s ready to face it. His day started two hours ago with his usual workout, check of the grounds, and the review of the feed logs. Back in his bedroom, he watches Freya, who’s a little paler than usual, walking to the edge of the pool. Gwen’s there and she says something to Freya in a low voice. The girl shakes her head, furrowing her little brows. Gwen starts talking again, but Freya stomps her foot, her fists clenching, and Arthur hears a sharp, “No!” before she kicks off her flip-flops and dives into the water.

Arthur hasn’t seen her much lately. First, there was a cold that kept her in bed, then she had to catch up on homework with Mordred, and then there’s always Merlin, who seems to be on a mission to possess all of Arthur’s time and attention. Freya just hasn’t been Arthur’s priority, and yes, she’s not his client, but he still sees himself responsible for her safety.

Under Gwen’s close supervision along the edge of the pool, Freya barely finishes one lap, collapsing over the other side of the pool, heaving and sputtering. Gwen quickly steps in to help her out. Freya hugs herself, shivering. Her mouth turns down with a quiver, the little girl looking like she’s about to cry. Gwen wraps lovingly her little body into a large towel, murmuring something soothingly, and kisses her cheeks, her forehead, rubs her arms and legs with care.

“Arthur?” Merlin calls, raspy, from the bed. “What are you doing?”

Arthur hears the rustles of the covers, a yawn, a scratch. He’s acutely aware of Merlin’s every move even when not looking.

“I don’t want to get confused about what I’m doing here,” he says without turning to Merlin, and it sounds rehearsed even to his own ears.

Merlin chuckles. “I’m not confused.”

“I’m paid to protect you. That’s what I’m here to do,” Arthur says, still unable to face Merlin, his voice prim, hollow. In the periphery of his vision, he sees Merlin sitting up.

“Have I done something wrong?” Merlin asks after a pause.

“No.” Arthur glances at him. “Nothing.” He rubs his shoulder as he watches Gwen carry Freya into the house, who’s clutching her favorite doll in a crocheted dress she’s carrying everywhere these days.

“What is it, then? Oh.” A smile in his vice. “You’d like me to woo you some more?” Merlin pats the bed next to him. “Come back to bed. I’ll woo you until you’re sore.”

“Christ, Merlin, no.” Arthur brings Merlin’s clothes he folded for him earlier and places them on the corner of the bed, still avoiding looking at Merlin. “Please.”

Merlin ignores it. “What’s going on, Arthur?”

Arthur picks up his jacket from the back of the chair and starts putting it on. “I’d like to keep it straight in my head, what my job is.”

Merlin snatches his shirt sitting on top of his jeans. “Which is what, exactly? Making me feel like rubbish?”

Arthur buttons his jacket and fixes his cuffs. He shakes his head. “No.”

Merlin raises his voice. “Then what is it? Do care to explain.”

Finally meeting Merlin’s eyes, he exhales. “It’s my fault.”

“Oh, bollocks. Just spit it out already!”

In the light of the bright morning sun, the nearly faded marks can still be spotted on Merlin’s neck -- a reminder of that unfortunate charity show almost a week ago. He roughly pulls the shirt over his head. His eyes are a harsh, stormy blue, brows knitted together, a five o’clock shadow dusting the line of his jaw. Disheveled, frustrated, and still a little groggy, he’s unbelievably attractive right now.

Arthur wishes they’d met under different circumstances, not like this -- on an unequal playing field, distance between them unbreachable. He thumps the ache in his chest, killing it at the root and shutting down the momentary urge to go to Merlin, to tell him not to worry, that it was a joke, _Haha, you’re so gullible, Merlin, I gotcha good._ They could still spend the whole day together, Merlin could still take Arthur to that dinner he promised him. And he certainly, certainly, could do his wizardry tricks on Arthur some more, like last night -- they could fuck until they’re both sore.

That won’t happen.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says.

Merlin groans and flips the bed covers off. He’s already back in his black briefs. “Don’t apologize to me! Just tell me what I did.”

“It wasn’t you. It was me. I got involved with my client.”

Merlin’s eyes narrow. “Your client?”

Arthur adjusts his tie. “Yes.”  Raising his chin, he fixes a gaze on Merlin,. “It was a mistake.”

A muscle works in Merlin’s jaw. “I’m your client?” he repeats. “Is that all?”

“What else is there? I told you. I have to stay focused. And this--” Arthur gestures between them. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Merlin demands. He looks so young right now, young and still unjaded, and Arthur messed with it. What was he thinking?

He swears under his breath. “I can’t protect you like this, Merlin.”

Merlin chews on his lip, keeping an intense gaze on Arthur. “So, this is it? Just like that?”

Arthur takes a long breath through his nose and nods. “Yeah.”

He turns to leave.

“I don’t believe you, Arthur!” Merlin calls.

“Well.” Arthur pauses at the door, half-turning his head. “You can live with it, or you can fire me.”

Merlin is up, spitting, “But I can’t _fuck_ you?”

Arthur closes his eyes, letting the sting of the blow pass, and walks out.

******

The conversation with Morgana, whom he thankfully hasn’t seen for almost a month due to this job, is a disaster. Morgana laughs loud and long when Arthur accuses her of unethical practices and of misleading her client.

“Don’t be such a child, brother,” she tells him, annoyingly patronizing. “And please stop acting like you’re a saint.”

It’s impossible to argue with Morgana, and Arthur should know that by now. He can lead a team of men on a field on a critical mission, but he can’t, absolutely cannot stand up to his own sister.

How pathetic is that.

“I told Merlin,” he announces in his last-ditch attempt to threaten her. “He knows.”

“What is it exactly that he knows?” Morgana asks.

“That you brought me in with an ulterior motive,” Arthur says.

“Which is…?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out,” Arthur promises.

“Well, call me first thing when you do. Or tell me in person. When’s our next lunch again?”

Morgana’s joyful laugh rings in his ears even after he hastily ends the call.

**  
  
**

******

Elyan finds Arthur in the afternoon, shifting foot to foot on Arthur’s doorsteps.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks as soon as he sees Elyan’s meek expression.

Elyan hands him a small gray pouch, stuffed with something soft and secured by a thin string of leather. “I found this in the car.”

Arthur carefully pulls the string to open the pouch. The items he finds inside are puzzling: an inch-sized square of red silky fabric, a few strands of hay twisted together, some dirt, and a small, crumpled piece of paper with three letters cut out of newspaper, glued on: “D”, and “I” and “E”. Arthur’s breath catches in this throat.

“You found this in the car, when?” he asks Elyan.

“Just now. I was doing my usual routine of inspecting the car, like you always tell me to. This was between the seats. Someone stuck it in there, Arthur.” Elyan rubs his forehead. “I don’t understand. How did it--”

“Calm, now,” Arthur orders, interrupting Elyan’s babbling. “I need you to concentrate. When was the last time you inspected the car?”

Elyan takes a deep breath. “Yesterday afternoon, and there was nothing, I swear.”

“I believe you. Where was the car parked and where did you drive it between then and now?”

“It’s been parked in the garage here at the house…” Elyan’s eyes widen. “Carwash. Arthur, the carwash I took it to yesterday.”

“Where?” Arthur asks.

“The gas station half a mile from us.”

“All right,” Arthur says. “Did you leave the car unattended while it was washed?”

Elyan swallows. “I normally do it myself, but with my hands still healing… Gwen said to give it a rest. Gaius was going to give me a new batch of salve, and I--” He starts blinking fast.

“Elyan,” Arthur warns him.

Elyan’s eyes find focus again, and he sobers up. “I-- I left it with the washing crew. Grabbed a bite to eat across the street while waiting.”

“All right,” Arthur says. “So, you’ve brought the car there before.”

“Yes,” Elyan confirms with a nod. “I’ve been using it in the past couple of months. Every several days.”

“So, you’re a regular there.”

“I guess,” Elyan agrees.

“Do you go around the same time?”

“Yes, I go in the afternoons to have it ready for an evening when needed. I took my time yesterday, since Merlin didn’t need me, so.”

Arthur doesn’t need Elyan to bring up the reason why Merlin didn’t need Elyan’s services yesterday. He doesn't want to think about it himself, either -- preferably ever.

But what Elyan tells him is actually good. Arthur hopes this is going to be something to help find his client’s stalker. And then, when it’s all over, he’s going to resign from this position. Arthur thinks about it with a sense of both relief and resentment. It’s quite possible that this kind of job is not for him. Or more like, he’s not right for the job, judging by the events last night and this morning. At least they’re hopefully getting closer to catching the sick bastard. Arthur knows who it is he’ll be calling next.

******

“Pardon?” Merlin asks Arthur, lifting his head from the book on the table. His eyes skim impassively over Arthur’s frame in the doorway and he returns his attention to the book.

Arthur coughs into his fist. “We found what can possibly be a lead to catch the person stalking you.”

“Brilliant,” Merlin says without interest, his head still down in the book.

Arthur shifts in his spot. “We’ll need a swab from you. For DNA testing.”

Merlin shrugs. “Sure.”

Arthur waits for a moment. Merlin raises his head to look at him, frowning. “Anything else?”

“Um…” No, nothing. “I’ll schedule the time with Leon, then. For someone to be sent from the precinct to take a sample.”

“Leon...?” Merlin asks.

Arthur doesn’t want to show how lost Merlin’s dispassionate face makes him feel. “Yes. You’ve met Leon. My friend? He works for the LAPD.”

“Ah.” Merlin’s mouth is curling into an unpleasant smile. “Your copper friend. You seem to know the right people in the right places, don’t you, Arthur?”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “Yes. The right people to save your ass.”

Merlin’s gaze turns sharp. “It is your job, innit? So go do it. That’s what you’re paid for.”

It takes everything in Arthur not to slam the door on the way out. This is bullshit. This can’t go on.

This is all his doing.

He hopes this will all be over soon.

******

“I hope you didn't have your lunch today yet,” Leon says when he calls Arthur next time. “Or you might lose it.”

“No need to be sensitive on my account,” Arthur sayss. “Lay it on me.”

“So, what we found,” Leon says then, “is what some would call a hex bag.”

“A hex bag?” Arthur asks, not sure he heard it right. “Like voodoo stuff?”

“I dunno whatcha wanna to call it, but yeah, my guy told me it’s basically a charm with a mixture of herbs, talismans, and other witchy stuff, all supposedly bound by a spell. Black magic. It’s designed to harm or protect a person whose stuff is found in that bag. Now, I’m going to take a wild guess that since we found a note with the word ‘die’ in it, this is not a love-binding charm.” Leon chuckles, although Arthur doesn’t find any of it funny. “Now, since your Merlin was so cooperative with us--”

 _He’s not mine._  Arthur stops his protest before it's out. He’s not about to make more of an ass of himself in front of his best friend, who knows him too well and will never let him live it down.

“--we were able to establish that,” Leon continues, “there were several pieces in that bag that belonged to your boy magician. A piece of red fabric has his saliva on it, we found the dirt collected from what we think is the garden at his house, and Merlin’s hair. Now, here’s the most disgusting part,” Leon announces, sounding more amused than disgusted. “All that is mixed with semen. _Human semen_ , Arthur. Not Merlin’s, by the way.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Arthur exhales.

“I know, right?” Leon says. “Disgusting.”

“Yeah.” Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Fucking disturbing.”

“I agree.”

“But we can find the stalker now.”

“Oh yeah,” Leon says. “With the DNA evidence, and the fact that we’re sure the bag was planted at the carwash place, we’ll nail the bastard’s ass. I can bet you anything there are security cameras in that place. Give me a week or so and I’ll let you know where we are.”

“A week?”

“Maybe more. This isn’t my department, man, so I’ll have to pass it on to the right division. I can ask for favors, but it won’t be under my jurisdiction.”

“He’s been sending death threats,” Arthur reminds him.

“Yup, which no one officially logged. There’s no proof of continuation of behavior, my friend.”

“I’ll make sure we file an official complaint,” Arthur suggests. He’ll push for it. This is becoming too wacky and too serious to be worried about what the press is going to say if they find out about the stalking. He’ll let Morgana handle it.

“Now we’re talking. You know I can’t keep investigating this off the books forever.”

“Yes, I know. We’ll do it, Leon.”

Leon hums. “Good, but even when you do, you gotta be patient with this stuff. We’ll need to open the case, document all evidence, get an order to obtain the security footage from the carwash place if it exists, and hopefully will be able to bring the guy in, whoever he is. We’ll need a good reason to request his DNA, and he can refuse it -- then it’s a file for a court order again. You know how it works.”

Arthur has a good idea, of course. He acknowledges that with a grunt.

“So keep a close eye on your client, stay focused, and stay tuned. I’ll do whatever I can and I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Arthur tells him.

“Thank me once we get the guy,” Leon says. “Maybe you’ll get me a couple of tickets to one of your Merlin’s shows. I hear he slays it.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, sighing. “Slaying is definitely his thing.”

******

Arthur can't recall a single time in his life when he’s actually ever held a doll, let alone played with it, despite having a sister. So it's a completely surreal experience to him as he finds himself in Freya’s room, perched on a small chair at her play table, fully suited in his professional attire while being surrounded by dollhouses and plush bunnies, and drinking tea from a teacup the size of a thimble. All pretend, but that's not the point.

The point is, Arthur has no idea how he was lured into this predicament, but Freya is here, playing alongside him, and fully into it. She fixes her favorite doll’s straw hand, patiently explaining to the toy in a tone of voice that sounds too much like Merlin’s that she doesn’t have to be a model if she doesn’t want to -- she can be a fireman or an architect if that’s what the doll fancies. “I’m going to be a scientist, you know,” Freya announces. “Merlin says I can choose any uni I want when I’m older.”

Arthur doesn’t dare protest when Freya shoves a doll into his hands and pulls a fire truck out of the toy trunk, declaring that she’s opening a “girls only” fireman station. She glances at Arthur with calculating eyes.

“You can be our personal assistant,” she allows. “Do you know how to write?”

Arthur nods, trying to keep a straight face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you’re hired. Here, fix this.” Freya takes the doll away from Arthur and hands him the fire truck. “It stopped running.”

Arthur chuckles. “That’s not what personal assistants do.”

“Says who?” she asks, frowning.

“I don’t know. Isn’t it a mechanic’s job?”

“Who’s a mechanic?”

“A person who fixes cars.”

“But this is not a car, is it?” Freya insists.

Arthur smiles. “Looks like a car to me.”

Freya’s face is turning pink. “No, no, it’s not!”

“It has four wheels and a cabin, right?” Arthur asks, carefully, seeing that she’s getting agitated.

Freya stomps her foot and yanks the truck out of Arthur’s hand. “This is not a car. It’s a unicorn.” She smacks Arthur’s arm with the toy, putting more strength in it than Arthur would expect from a child. “Unicorns don’t have wheels. They have legs!” Her voice borderlines on hysteria, eyes glistening with tears. She swings the toy, aiming at him again.

Arthur shields his arm by instinct and gets a whack in the brow instead. He ducks and stops Freya’s wrist when she goes to hit him again. “Okay, Freya, I got it. It’s a unicorn. Stop it.”

Freya shrieks and kicks him in the shin. Having zero experience in dealing with kids, Arthur flails.

“It was my bad, okay?” he pleads. “I can fix your unicorn. I promise.”

Freya starts crying, her thin shoulders shaking, strands of her hair falling in her red little face. “No you can’t! You know nothing about unicorns, do you?” she sobs.

“What’s going on here?” Merlin runs in the room and rushes to Freya. “Frey, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Arthur…” she cries into his shoulder as he picks her up.

Merlin glares at Arthur.

Arthur shakes his head, spreading his arms helplessly. “I’m sorry, Merlin, we were just--”

“Don’t,” Merlin says harshly. “Why are you even here?”

“She wanted to play. She was bored.”

“That’s not your concern,” Merlin spits out. “Get out.”

“You’ve been rubbish to Merlin, too,” Freya snivels, wrapping her arms around Merlin’s neck. “He doesn’t understand it.”

“Shhhh.” Merlin rubs her back, averting his eyes, and adds, softer, “Just leave, Arthur.”

Arthur pauses, searching for something else to say, to make sure Freya will be all right, but Merlin turns away and, lightly rocking Freya in his arms, walks to bed.

“I don’t feel too good, Merlin,” Arthur hears Freya complaining in a small voice while he’s leaving the room, feeling like shit himself and having no idea how to fix any of it.

******

“Ta-da!” Mordred sing-songs, sliding a tablet to Arthur, who’s apathetically eating an apple at the kitchen table.

Arthur frowns at it. “What is it?”

Mordred snorts. “No one’s told you? Merlin’s magic show special is nominated for an Emmy. Hallelujah!”

Arthur studies the picture of a smiling Merlin along with several other nominees featured in the article announcing that, Emmy welcomes a newcomer: Merlin Emrys is pegged for a winner this year! He can see both Morgana and Kilgharrah having had a hand in that title.

“Everyone says he’s a sure thing.” Mordred smiles, but it looks more like a frown, resentful and sad. “But of course you already knew that.”

Arthur stops chewing and raises his brows at Mordred.

Mordred grimaces. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. It’s none of my business.”

“Is there something you need, Mordred?” Arthur asks after a beat of awkward silence, pushing the tablet to the side.

Mordred shifts from foot to foot, pauses, then sighs. “No... I mean--”

Arthur lifts his head and turns to him, setting a heavy gaze on him, waiting.

Mordred clears his throat. “Well, there’s something--”

Percival slides into the room and jumps at Mordred. “Mordred, mate!” Mordred buckles under Percival’s considerable weight with a grunt, but Percival is in too good of a mood to notice. “Hi, Arthur! Have you heard yet? Our Merlin’s gonna win this thing, you’ll see! Whoop-whoop!” He slaps Mordred’s leg.

“Get off me, you lard arse!” Mordred gives Percy an angry shove.  “Didn’t you see? We were talking.” He glances at Arthur, smoothing his hair.

“Yeah, but Merlin--” Percy starts.

“ _Yeah, but Merlin_ ,” Mordred mocks him, snatching the tablet off the counter. “Merlin, what? Kiss-ass.”

“Oh come now, Mor, I was just--” Percy follows Mordred out of the kitchen.

Arthur sighs. Kids. Still kids. Both of them.

******

Their life becomes a whirlwind.

Merlin is the new shiny toy in town everyone wants to befriend, have lunch with, have on their show as a guest. Everyone wants to see Merlin’s magic tricks.

He’s asked to perform at the Emmys, and there’s a promise of a big contract that Kilgharrah keeps mentioning but refuses to share any details about. He’s afraid to jinx it, the pretentious old bastard. No matter; it’s not Arthur’s job to know.

Per his insistence, though, and to Kilgharrah’s annoyance, they hire more security staff. Because Arthur simply cannot be everywhere. But no matter where Merlin’s going, Arthur’s attached to him by the hip or shoulder. Arthur doesn’t trust Merlin’s safety to anyone else.

Merlin practices more than ever before, the lights in his studio next to his bedroom often staying on past two or three in the morning. He’s all smiles and pleasantness in public, warm with his fans, chatty with journalists, affectionate with Freya, who seems to be testing everyone’s limits lately with her tantrums, but Arthur can see how the pressure of constantly keeping it together is steadily getting to Merlin.

Gwen complains about needing to take in at least two inches off his performance costumes; he hisses at her to, _Just bloody do it!_ His eyes are sinking in more, his face hollowing, requiring more makeup for endless interviews and photoshoots; his cheekbones and collarbones are too prominent, sharper. He swims more, boxes with Percy more, he snipes at Kilgharrah more often, and when it comes to Arthur…

With Arthur, it’s -- absolutely nothing. No outbursts. No emotions. Arthur is now what Merlin wanted him to be from the very beginning: he’s just a shadow.

It seems that while Arthur’s finally agreed to Merlin’s privacy boundaries, Merlin has finally accepted Arthur’s rules, and the paradox is they’ve fallen into perfect sync, working together. So now Merlin stands exactly where Arthur nods him, moves when Arthur gives him a sign that they’re ready, and Arthur is so attuned to Merlin, he knows when to step in to block an overly zealous fan or stand back and let Merlin handle the situation. They don’t chat or joke, speaking only when necessary; they’ve developed an ideal, respectful, professional relationship, and if Arthur notices sometimes that Merlin tenses when Arthur is a step too far back or dips out of his peripheral vision, he thinks nothing of it. They’re all creatures of comfort and habit, aren’t they?

He’s already contacted Leon twice. He has absolutely no time for Arthur, promises to check on the case but doesn’t call back.

Days move fast, and there’s a sort of a routine to it that Arthur can appreciate, but there’s something missing. Something isn’t there, but he’s not going to dig too deep for now; it never ends well when he does.

******

**  
**

Arthur has never seen Kilgharrah as happy as he is right now. They’re at a trendy restaurant, in a rented private room, having a small -- by the old man’s standards -- celebration of Merlin’s success thus far with thirty people present. Arthur knows all their names because it’s his job but doubts Merlin knows even half of them. Kilgharrah presents a row of his uneven, yellow teeth while he stands up and taps a knife on a flute of champagne, calling for--

“Your attention please, ladies and gentlemen. I have an announcement to make.” He turns to Merlin. “To celebrate my client’s award nomination, one of his sponsors is hosting a benefit concert -- all proceeds to a charity, as usual -- followed by a dinner at the glamorous Beverly Wilshire. Merlin, of course, will perform as well. Right, Merlin?”

Merlin, who’s sitting to his right, nods, smiling forcefully.

“Sounds great!” one of the guests says. “Are we all invited?”

Kilgharrah issues a raspy laugh that ends as a cough. “Everyone who can afford a thousand-a-plate dinner is invited.” He pats Merlin’s hitched to his ear shoulder. “Merlin’s killing two birds with one stone here. I’m very proud of him.”

Kilgharrah’s done it again -- gone ahead with plans involving a large group of strangers and Merlin performing, without warning to Arthur.

“When’s the concert?” Arthur asks quietly when they’re back in the limo on the way home.

Merlin’s head is resting on the back of the seat, eyes closed. His face is unnaturally pale under the lights of the passing street lamps, mouth slacking a little. He looks like he’s passed out, and Arthur tries to keep his voice low so not to disturb him.

“Don’t you read the papers, Arthur?” the old bastard asks. It’s like he enjoys goading Arthur. Does it on purpose, over and over. For what purpose, though, is beyond Arthur. “Everyone’s talking about it. This is going to be huge, young man. Massively important for Merlin, considering who's invited. Probably more important than the awards show itself.”

Arthur suppresses his desire to reach out and strangle the wretched man. Instead, he breathes in and out, and asks, because he has to, “Is this absolutely necessary for him to perform? Merlin’s exhausted, don’t you see? I don’t think he’s slept for more than three to four hours a day in weeks. This pace is not sustainable.”

“Merlin’s living his dream at the moment, Arthur, and don’t you forget it,” Kilgharrah preaches. “Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

Merlin shifts in his sleep, his lashes fluttering, and Arthur falls into silence. Yes, they’ve discussed it; doesn’t mean Arthur’s always going to bite his tongue.

*******

“Leon, talk to me,” Arthur demands, having waited for his friend to call him back a few more days without response.

“Arthur, I was about to call you. Sorry, been swamped here,” Leon says, sounding dead tired.

“You okay?” Arthur asks.

“Eh,” Leon says, “the usual. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Have any news for me?”

Leon hums. “Some.”

Arthur hears the click of a mouse, the creak of a chair, a slurp and a sigh.

“It’s moving along. The guys on the case have obtained the CCTV footage and processed it. Looks like they have a suspect.”

“What’s his name?” Arthur demands.

Leon tsks. “Arthur, you know better than to ask something like that.”

Arthur scrubs his face with his hand. “Well, has he been brought in yet?”

“Not yet. He has no permanent address, which poses a problem.”

“Dammit,” Arthur swears.

“The guy is a slippery fucker, what can I say? Maybe he does use some voodoo magic to keep us off his trail.”

“Be serious,” Arthur says, annoyed.

“I am, actually,” Leon says. “You know, I’ve seen some wacky shit in my career. Unexplainable shit. I’m sure you have, too. And after all that, I wouldn’t write off the possibility that the supernatural exists -- in some form, at least. Like, how do you explain that the burn holes on Elyan’s shirt looked like burns, hurt him like burns, but had no evidence that they were caused by any known physical element?”

“You must've knocked your head recently,” Arthur suggests. “Or is it too much booze? Admit it. Or the lack of sleep?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Leon laughs. “Anyway, we’re closing in on that sucker, I promise. And when we catch him, you better have those tickets to your boyfriend’s show ready for me.”

“We’re not…” Arthur says and stops himself. “I can’t, okay?”

Leon stops laughing. “What, didn’t work out? You two looked pretty cozy the last time I saw you together.”

“He’s my client, Leon.”

Leon snorts. “Sure. Like people never sleep with their nannies or tennis instructors. You know, some of them even marry.”

Arthur sputters. “What are you even talking about?”

“Look, man, all I’m saying is that you need to remove that stick up your ass. Life won’t wait for you.”

“Right, because you know better.”

“Maybe I do. I saw how you were practically holding hands and couldn’t dump us fast enough. Don’t think Gwaine and I didn’t notice.”

Arthur isn’t going to think about that tonight. But it reminds him that it’s lucky they weren't spotted by paps that evening. These days, those vultures are everywhere, snapping Merlin’s pictures while practically creeping into his pants for a better shot. Arthur hates them with a passion.

“You and Gwaine better stop running your mouths,” Arthur warns. “One ill-conceived word spreads like wildfire in this town. Merlin doesn’t need it.”

“Not worried about your own reputation, Pendragon?” Leon asks, chuckling.

“What reputation?” Arthur asks with a soft huff. “No one cares about me. I’m perfectly safe.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s exactly your problem, my friend,” Leon suggests.

Arthur doesn’t ask him to clarify.

******

 

The good news is the Beverly Wilshire has its own fully staffed security office, and it runs like clockwork. Arthur’s given an earpiece, floor plans, and the event’s full schedule immediately upon his request. No fuss, no one playing hard to get, no time wasted. Still, as Arthur takes a tour of the hotel’s amenities, getting himself familiar with the facilities and listening to the lazy talk of the security guards over his earpiece, he catches himself thinking what a snobby establishment this is. No wonder Kilgharrah loves it. Morgana probably does, too. **  
**

Arthur’s last stop is the venue where the concert will be performed. He steps on the brightly lit stage, looking into the dark space before him where the audience will eat, drink, and laugh, spending an obscene amount of money while being catered to. Arthur shakes his head and mutters, “What a silly job this is, Pendragon.”

And yet, he’s still here.

**  
**

*******

Arthur doesn't pay attention to the events on the stage, and if asked later, he wouldn't be able to recall a single performance, even Merlin's, he’s so focused on watching the floor. There are a lot of people. Wealthy, entitled, chatty, getting steadily drunk and loud, but that’s nothing new. Several hours later, the audience breaks up into several parties, Merlin moving up to the Royal Suite. It has enough space on the main level to entertain a crowd of at least fifty people, with a large terrace overlooking the Hollywood Hills and a marble staircase leading to the second floor with bedrooms.

Arthur exchanges nods with Percival, who tries to subtly mingle with the crowd, but it’s a feat with his size and general lack of finesse.

Arthur catches Mordred’s attentive gaze on him. His curly hair is styled, neatly framing his face, and his jacket is tailored for the occasion. Instead of a tie like everyone else, he has a lilac silk scarf draped artfully around his neck. With a playful smile on his face, cheeks flushed a little, he looks very dapper while standing in a small group of people, laughing at Kilgharrah’s jokes. This is his first time at one of Merlin’s events of such proportions, and he takes to it like a fish to water, clearly enjoying the moment. And, judging by the way he glues himself to Kilgharrah, this is an opportunity he’s not planning to miss.

Mordred doesn’t like to talk about it, but Gwen’s mentioned Mordred’s extraordinary painting skills and exceptional fashion sense on many occasions. Arthur doesn’t know much about art, but he’s seen Mordred’s sketches and even he agrees that Mordred is pretty darn good. It’s still not entirely clear to him, what made Mordred follow Merlin to the States and settle in the same house, keeping in the shadow of Merlin’s limelight. Looking at him now, seemingly in his element in a crowd of big fishes, Arthur thinks he’s starting to understand.

“He’s cute,” a woman standing on Arthur’s left says, sipping on her champagne.

“Not just cute,” the woman next to her agrees. “He’s positively fuckable.”

“Oh yeah,” the first one responds. “I wouldn’t mind getting fucked by those magic fingers of his.”

They aren’t talking about Mordred, obviously, and Arthur follows their gazes to find that the object of their filthy talk is Merlin, who’s standing on the stairs across the room. Arthur moves away from the women, making sure he’s far enough to stay out of earshot.

He catches sight of a familiar heart-shaped face in the crowd. A woman in a light-grey pantsuit with a tablet in her hand shoulders through the crowd and accidentally elbows Kilgharrah, who hisses, snapping his head in her direction. The second he sees her, his scowl turns into a thin smile.

“Ms. Sid,” he says with a courtly nod. “I beg your pardon.”

Sophia manages a smile while keeping her lips pursed. “That’s nice to hear.” She adds something else, to which Kilgharrah tilts his head, snorting, and grabs a glass from the tray of the waiter passing by.

“Merlin!” he exclaims and raises a glass full of bubbly in his client’s honor. “This is your night! To your success!”

The chatter in the room quiets down for a moment and everyone turns in Merlin’s direction. There are more raised glasses in the air and a chorus of, “Cheers!”

Merlin grins and waves. “Where’s my glass, you old bugger?”

There’s a telltale glossy shine to his eyes, hinting it wouldn’t be his first. The problem is, Arthur knows for a fact that Merlin’s barely had a meal in him today, and barely any sleep last night. Somebody should watch out for him, make sure he doesn’t get alcohol poisoning on an empty stomach. Wouldn’t be Arthur’s job, for sure. He’s not his babysitter.

“Alator! Where’s the champagne?” Kilgharrah calls over the crowd. “Is that any way to treat your guest of honor?”

Arthur, who’s started a slow progress towards Merlin, stops in his tracks and looks around. Sure enough, he spots a familiar face -- the bastard who nearly killed Merlin two months ago for his own damn entertainment.

“Honest oversight,” Alator responds immediately, smiling. He turns to Merlin. “Glad to see there are no hard feelings, Mr. Emrys. I’m honored you came.”

Merlin sways a little. His smile doesn’t falter, though. “Of course. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to help you empty your pockets some more, Mr. Alator. In fact…” He smiles a big, mischievous smile, and lifts his hand, requesting a moment. He makes a show of rubbing his hands a few times and pulls a gold wristwatch practically out of his open palm. “Is this yours?” he asks.

Alator checks his naked wrist, laughs, and wags his finger at Merlin. “Neat trick, Mr. Emrys. Illegal, but neat.”

Merlin shakes his head, smacking his lips. “No tricks.”

“Just magic!” the entire room exclaims cheerfully in Merlin’s support and erupts in applause.

Merlin laughs, pointing at the crowd. “See? They know.”

“All right, all right,” Alator says, waving his arms in a capitulating gesture. “I apologize! Please keep the watch. I was going to send you one as a gift anyway.”

Merlin bites on his lip, staring nowhere for a beat, then smiles. “How about we auction it?”

“Oh no,” Arthur mutters, already suspecting where this may be going. “For fuck’s sake.”

He turns to search for Kilgharrah and shakes his head as soon as their eyes meet.

Kilgharrah rolls his eyes at Arthur and announces, “I think we’ve done enough damage to these lovely people’s wallets for tonight, Merlin. Let’s get you that champagne, shall we?” And he raises his glass again.

Merlin’s smile is a little loopy but lovely as he shrugs and slides Alator’s watch onto his wrist. Arthur can’t explain it, but he doesn’t like it. A twisted, unpleasant feeling rolls up his throat when Merlin raises his hand with the watch, heavy and gleaming, clasped on his wrist. It feels to him like Merlin’s just been marked. He just became a little less familiar to Arthur. More _theirs_.

*******

It irritates Arthur that Percival allows himself to be distracted by a random blonde girl in the opposite corner of the room while Arthur has to stand here and watch Merlin being chatted up by some slick in a white jacket and a black bowtie offering him yet another glass of champagne. Merlin accepts it with a pleased curve of his lips.

Arthur inches closer to them, just as a precaution. Merlin’s eyes dart in Arthur’s direction as if making sure he’s there -- by his side -- and he relaxes, leaning against the banister.

“...here on a job?” Arthur hears him asking the guy.

The guy shakes his head. “Not tonight.” Does he have to look at Merlin like he’s a dessert to eat?

Arthur watches the expression on Merlin's face change to something he already knows well, and his heart lurches in his chest.

Merlin hums contently. “S’good. So, you’re free?”

Placing his hand next to Merlin’s on the banister, the guy leans in. “Definitely.”

A smile hitches the corner of Merlin’s mouth higher. “That’s what I wanted to hear… Arthur,” he calls. “Take this.” With the surety of a person who knows he’ll be obeyed, he hands Arthur his glass of champagne without looking.

“Who’s this?” the guy asks, giving Arthur a double-take full of judgment.

Merlin shrugs. “My bodyguard.”

The guy startles. “Oh.”

Merlin pushes himself off the banister, his eyes barely grazing over Arthur. “Oh, don’t worry, he doesn’t give a shit.” He begins climbing the stairs. “You coming?”

The guy darts another glance at Arthur and grins. “That’s the idea.”

Arthur holds tight to the banister, still warm from Merlin’s palm, his finger catching on the nail sticking out underneath. He’s like that nail -- never quite fits in, always slotted at the wrong angle.

He doesn’t count Merlin’s steps up, but he watches him. He always watches Merlin. It’s his job, isn’t it, even if seeing him walk away with some other guy feels like all the air’s been punched out of him.

Arthur’s phone pings a minute later. He takes a look at the screen, and if he felt gutted before, now he’s shattered, because Merlin chooses this particular occasion to activate the location transmitter pin Arthur gave him a while ago to let him know where he is right now. In case Arthur had any illusions.

Arthur clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, letting the noise of the crowd around him fade into the background. When he opens his eyes again and uncurls his white-knuckled fingers from the banister, he’s composed again.

******

A woman approaches Arthur. Slinking like a cougar stalking prey, she smiles predatorily and purrs, “Hello there. I’ve been watching you all night from across the room.”

Arthur doesn’t need this shit right now. He gives her a slow up-and-down that should leave her feeling exactly the way she’s just made him feel -- like a prize, like an object -- and he suggests, “Why don’t you go back there. Keep watching.”

The woman scowls. He doesn’t give a damn.

He searches for Percy in the crowd and has to call his name a couple of times before Percy manages to tear his eyes and hands off the blonde beauty long enough to notice that Arthur’s signaling him.

Percy looks guilty and unhappy at the same time, like a puppy who’s been caught snarfing stolen treats.

“Stay here,” Arthur grits out once Percy makes it to him. "At the base of the stairs and don’t let a soul in. Got it?”

Percy’s brows perch up. He challenges, “Even Kilgharrah?” and it’s a such a wrong move.

“Which part of ‘not a soul in’ did you not understand?” Arthur asks. “Would you like to ask for help from the audience? Call a friend?”

“What?” Percy shakes his head. “No. I mean. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s just peachy.” His lips purse tighter than a bowstring. “Stop wasting my time.”

Percy’s shoulders drop. “Okay, Arthur. Where are you… Oh.”

Arthur doesn’t listen to Percy’s babbling. Taking two steps at a time, he climbs up the stairs to the second floor. The transmitting signal on his phone blinks faster, growing into a bigger yellow circle as Arthur moves from one room down the hall to the next. One empty bedroom. An empty restroom. A closed door at the end of the hall. The circle on the screen turns steady-red.

Merlin’s there, and probably doing what Arthur refuses to picture in his head. His mind does it for him anyway, eager to drive him to further destruction with an image of Merlin half-undressed with his shirt fully undone, his slacks unbuttoned and with someone’s hand inside, bringing the moaning Merlin off.

Arthur’s hands start to shake. Christ, he’s got it bad. When did that happen?

It’s all wrong.

They had one night. And now Merlin is having another. He’s not a monk. Arthur is not his beloved. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it hurts him right now. All composure gone to the point of feeling sick.

The floor creaks under Arthur’s feet and he lets out a long, quiet groan. Putting his phone back into his pocket, he turns around. No matter how much it sucks to be him right now, he’ll have to get over it. This is not a damn Shakespearean play.   

He’s ready to leave when he hears a scuffle coming from inside the room and a sharp, “No!” in Merlin’s voice.

Arthur’s back at the door immediately. He stills there, his ear hovering an inch away.

After another beat, Merlin repeats, louder, “I said no. I’m not doing this.”

There’s a laugh, and a muffled, “Oh, I think you are.”

What the fuck?

Arthur grabs the door handle, presses it down, but it doesn’t open. The scuffle behind the door turns into sounds of wrestling, followed by several slaps and Merlin snarling, “Get off me, you arsehole.”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate this time. He takes two steps back with the intention of breaking in the uncooperative door, when it flies open. There’s no one behind it at first, which baffles him. Then a man appears before him, disheveled, undone bowtie dangling off his neck. White-faced, eyes unfocused, he stumbles past Arthur and breaks into a wobbling run, knocking into walls on his way. His white jacket chases after him, zipping through the air, and lands on the floor.

“Fucking wanker!” Merlin, a swaying white spot in the middle of the dark bedroom, yells after him. He freezes, noticing Arthur. The ceiling lights flash a couple of times and illuminate the room. Aside from his loosened tie and messy hair, Merlin’s still fully dressed, and Arthur tells himself that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Merlin blinks owlishly, then scowls. “What do you want?” He’s slurring a little.

Arthur walks into the room and closes the door. “Are you okay?”

Merlin scoffs. “Why do you care”?

“No, I--” Arthur swallows. “I was--”

“You what?” Merlin doesn’t let him finish. “What? Prol-ly never had more than a beer in your...” He waves an uncoordinated hand at him. “--bloody distip... disciplined life.”

The words don’t quite cooperate coming out of Merlin’s mouth. Arthur shouldn’t smile, but as always where it comes to Merlin, he finds him a little endearing. He huffs softly.

“Are you laughing at me?” Merlin demands with a furrowed brow.

Arthur crosses his arms on his chest and shakes his head.

“You bloody are.” He stalks to Arthur. “Don’t you dare judge me. You--” He jabs his finger near Arthur’s face. “--self-righteous son of a bitch.”

Now, this is too much. Arthur snaps. “Oh, give me a break, would you?” Merlin might be drunk, but he’s not obliterated. Arthur can see that. “I didn’t tell you to fuck everyone at the party!”

“I can fuck anyone I want,” Merlin hisses, his eyes blazing brightly. “And you’ll stand and watch, if I tell you to.”

A hot wave of anger twists in Arthur’s gut. “I won’t do shit, Emrys. You forget you don’t own me,” he says through his teeth.

“But you thought you could own me for a night, didn’t you? How did that feel? Did it feel good? Fuck me, make me feel like it meant something, and toss me out next morning.” Merlin stands close, the tips of their shoes knocking. “You probably got off on it. Felt brilliant, didn't it?”

All fire goes out of Arthur. “No, Merlin. No, it didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” Merlin says, his face crumpling.

Arthur wants to answer, but nothing comes out except for a protesting noise.

“No,” Merlin says firmly. “You know what? You should get out.” He steps back. “I want you to sod off.”

Arthur can’t. He can’t leave Merlin like this: hurt, cracking open right before him. Merlin’ll hate him for this tomorrow, Arthur has no doubt, but he can’t leave.

“Merlin--”

Merlin pushes him in the chest. “I said go! I can take care of myself. I’m not--” Thrusting his finger at Arthur, he stops. Exhaling sharply through his nose, he drops his arm. His expression changes from anger to something else -- something bitter, detached. Merlin looks at Arthur like he’s disappointed him, and nothing could sting Arthur more. “You think I’m weak. You’re wrong. I tossed that wanker out. Did I need you for that? No, I didn’t. I don’t. Need. You.” Merlin presses upon every word like it’s a verdict served.

“Merlin,” Arthur tries again.

“I said out!” Merlin bites out, pointing at the door behind Arthur. It bangs open against the wall.

Arthur turns in surprise, wondering how it happened, and stumbles, being pushed forward as if by an invisible hand. Merlin’s sure quick for someone unstable on his feet. He isn’t sure how, but the next moment, he’s out of the room, in the hallway. The door slams shut with a blow of harsh air fanning across his face that leaves him gasping.

 

******

There’s not enough fresh air and probably not enough alcohol in all of Beverly Hills on a night like this. Arthur needs both, but not here, in the area where even close to midnight, pubs and restaurants overflow with patrons flocking to and fro Rodeo Drive like it’s a holy land. Water doesn’t turn to wine even in Hollywood, contrary to some people’s belief, and Arthur’s tasted enough vinegar and has witnessed enough pain to know for a fact there are no miracles. Beauty is an illusion. Happiness is a mind trick.

“Where’s your damn magic now, huh, Emrys?” Arthur mutters into a glass of what should be neat scotch, but it's definitely watered down with soda. “My life is a fucking mess,” he tells a bleary-eyed bartender.

An hour ago, Percy had texted Arthur. Once.

_A, FYI. M’s leaving the hotel. He wouldn't tell me where he’s going. I'm following him._

And that was the last straw for Arthur.  

He’s in some random pub near LAX, not even sure how he picked it, and not nearly as drunk as he planned to be. Maybe Merlin’s right -- he can’t even get smashed properly, the stick is so far up his ass. Or was it Leon who said it?

“Last call, pal,” bartender says, yawning. “Get you a cab?”

Arthur scrubs his face with his hand and nods.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks him.

 _Home_ , he almost blurts out and realizes he can't name that address. There’s none.

He stretches in his seat and sighs. “Can you just… drive for a while?”

The cabbie turns to look at him. “You serious?”

Arthur shrugs.

“One of those nights, huh?” the cabbie says with sympathy.

Arthur rolls his window down all the way and breathes in. The air near the pub smells like beer gone sour, old piss, and exhaust fumes. He squints at the clock on the car’s dash. 2:27 a.m. “Can you get me somewhere where you can pedal it at one-twenty?”

Cabbie chuckles. “Are you gonna go to traffic school for me?”

He meets the cabbie’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t you want to live a little? At least sometimes?”

Cabbie sucks air in from both corners of his mouth, considering the question, and gives him a sharp nod. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

******

At 6.30 a.m., Arthur’s at Gwaine’s apartment, knocking for at least five minutes before he answers.

“Leon’s on assignment,” he explains to Gwaine through the half-open door, averting his face.

Gwaine, who’s sporting a serious case of bed hair, squints at Arthur while scratching his hairy belly under the t-shirt.

“Leon’s at his girlfriend’s, you dick,” he tells him, yawning, and finally nods for him to come in. “I bet you didn’t even know he had one. It’s all about you, princess.”

With an exasperated sound, Arthur pushes past Gwaine into the apartment. “He could’ve just told me.”

“You could’ve just asked,” Gwaine retorts.

“How are things with Morgana?” Arthur makes a half-hearted attempt at civility, but Gwaine doesn’t buy it.

“Right.” He grabs Arthur, who’s heading straight to the bathroom, by his arm. “Hey, wanna tell me what you fucked up this time?”

Arthur halts his steps. “This time?”

“Yeah. Last time you were here, you had a fight in the bar with someone who called you a faggot. We had to set your nose again, remember?”

Arthur purses his lips without answering.

Gwaine doesn’t stop there. “Then before that, you thought I was cheating on Morgana and you crashed here for a while, spying on me.”

Arthur rubs his jaw, making a face. “I was between leases. I wasn’t spying.”

“Tell that bullshit to someone else.” Gwaine keeps going, relentless. “And that time, when I’d just gotten my first place with, like, six roommates, you had a fight with your dad, the big one. You hid at mine for two weeks before being sent to a military school, remember?”

Arthur remembers, and he doesn’t want to talk about that. It was fucking ages ago. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” is all he’s able to offer.

“I know. I was just saying,” Gwaine agrees in a tone less harsh. “All right. Are you taking a shower? You fucking stink...” He grabs Arthur by his dirty sleeve and tries to sniff it. “Car oil? What the hell, man?”

“There was a small incident. On the road,” Arthur explains. “Engine overheated.”

Gwaine laughs. “Whatever, man. Fine, you go while I call Morgana.”

Arthur snaps his head to look at his friend. “Morgana? Why?”

“Because she told me so. She knew you’d be here this morning, looking like you’d kicked someone’s puppy.”

Arthur frowns. “How would she know? Did she talk to Merlin?”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Gwaine grins. “So you did fuck something up. With Merlin? Nah, she didn't talk to him. You know Morgana. She sometimes just knows.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Is she still having nightmares?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Not all her dreams are bad, though. Here, use this.” Gwaine tosses Arthur a fresh towel, then pauses to give Arthur an assessing look. “You could use a solid myofascial release. How’s your shoulder?” He takes Arthur’s wrist to check his watch. “My first client is in three hours, plenty of time. And you’re gonna tell me what happened with Merlin.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Free shower.” Gwaine holds up an index finger. “Free deep-tissue massage.” He holds up the second finger. “Free breakfast.” Brings up the third. “And your stinky clothes sent to the express dry cleaning next door.” He thrusts four fingers in Arthur’s face. “That’s five one-in-a-lifetime-opportunity favors. I say you’re talking.”

“That’s four, you nimwit,” Arthur scoffs, walking into the bathroom. He begins to undress.

“Five favors,” Gwaine insists. “You forget the one when I don’t tell Morgana that you have the biggest, stupidest crush on your client. You slept with him, didn’t you?”

With a sigh, Arthur looks around and picks up a shampoo bottle that's almost full and starts tossing it from hand to hand.

Gwaine blocks his face, then changes his mind and drops his arms to shield his crotch. “All right. All right!” Ducking, he slams the door just in time to stop the flying bottle from hitting him in the head. He laughs through the closed door. “I don’t have to tell her. She’s already seen it. You’re busted, princess!”

“Go the fuck away,” Arthur answers, turning the shower on.

******

Gaius calls Arthur around ten in the morning while he’s waiting for his suit from the dry cleaners.

Gwaine went to see a client half an hour ago, leaving Arthur feeling like every tissue of his body had been stretched, soothed, and toned -- even in his bad shoulder -- and with a formed decision in his head.

“Where the hell are you, Arthur?” Gaius demands, sounding angry and relieved at once.

“Do I now report to you as well?” Arthur snaps.

“No, of course not, but Merlin--”

“Doesn’t need me,” Arthur interrupts him. “There’s Percy. And I added one more guy to the shift last night.”

“Yes, but Merlin had to come back home in the middle of the night. Freya--”

“Is a spoiled little girl who needs to be disciplined more,” Arthur deadpans. “Anyway, it’s none of my business. I’m through, Gaius.”

Gaius squeaks, sounding not at all like a dignified man of respectable age. “What?”

“You heard me. I’m through. I shouldn’t have listened to you in the first place. I’m letting Kilgharrah know this morning that the new guys are trained well; I made sure of it. They can cover until he finds a replacement for me if he wants.”

“Arthur, something happened while you were out,” Gaius says.

Arthur’s jaw clenches. “I don’t care.”

“Someone was in Merlin’s room at night and--”

Great. Now he has to hear from Gaius about Merlin’s adventures.

“I said I don’t care. Merlin can do whatever he wants.”

“No, listen. Someone filmed Freya sleeping in her room and Merlin’s empty bedroom and sent Merlin a video.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “Is Freya okay?”

“She’s unharmed, but don't you understand? They need you. Please come to the house.”

Arthur exhales, glad to hear Frey’s okay. Merlin had refused surveillance of his and Freya’s rooms, and he knows it's wrong, but he feels a sense of vindication in him right now, however small, that he can't help. Whatever happened, it’s a lesson he hopes Merlin will learn well.

So he says, determined, “Gaius. I can’t help them. If someone’s broken into the house again, call the police. There’s an open case and they know what to do.”  

“The police have been called, but it’s not enough,” Gaius argues. He sighs. “Come home, Arthur. I don’t know what happened between you and Merlin, but I know he’ll be reasonable now. Kilgharrah will be, too. I promise.”

Arthur’s blood pressure rises just at the mention of Kilgharrah’s name. “Save it, Gaius!” he snipes. “The people who hired my protection don’t need to be convinced to save their own lives.” He breathes through his nose in and out a few times. “Regardless. I’m sending my formal resignation to Kilgharrah shortly and will come by the house tonight to pick up my things. And that’s final.”

He hangs up on Gaius’ squawking protests.

******

Some would call it a chickenshit move, but Arthur has a different opinion when he chooses to turn in his resignation by email. It’s not weak; it’s keeping up with modern times. It’s not worth mentioning, in Arthur’s mind, that he also turned his cell phone off right after that.

So he’s not surprised or even a little bit disappointed when he turns it back on again that afternoon to find no response from Kilgharrah. No messages. No missed calls. So, that went well, then.

He arrives at Merlin Emrys’s house in the evening, when it’s already turning dark, and punches in his security code at the gates as a test to see if these people can follow simple security protocol. Nope -- the gates open for him without a squeak. His heart doesn’t give a small, pleased kick in his chest at that. He just needs his things and his truck, and he doesn’t want a scene.

No one greets him or stops him on his way through the grounds. It’s quiet and dark inside the bungalow. He steps into the kitchen without turning the lights on and for a while, he leans over the sink, his head lowered. He opens the fridge and contemplates beer or water. After last night’s events, water wins.

When Arthur turns around, it’s to his professional and personal embarrassment that he gasps and drops the plastic bottle at the sight of the figure sitting at the kitchen table that he didn't notice before.

_Merlin._

Waiting for his racing heart to calm and his scattered thoughts gather, Arthur slowly picks up the bottle, measuring his moves to keep them steady. He takes another bottle from the fridge. He can’t see it, but he knows Merlin’s watching him, probably has watched him all this time, their roles reversed tonight. It doesn’t feel right. And he feels like a fool, standing on half-bent legs, clutching bottles to his chest like a stranded man who can’t feel the bottom of the sea under his feet.

He forces himself to unlock his knees and move. Placing a water bottle in front of Merlin, he retreats, creating appropriate distance between them again, and props himself against the counter.

Merlin doesn’t touch the bottle. Sitting with his back and head pressed against the wall, he just stares at Arthur and stares at him, his features blurred in the dark, and Arthur wishes he could see his face better. Merlin has such an expressive face -- the Merlin he’d had the privilege to know better. The “before” Merlin.

Arthur shifts.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, startling him. His voice is scratchy, as if it hasn’t been used in a while. “Nothing that’s happened between us matters. I understand now.”

Arthur doesn’t know what exactly he’d expected to hear. Had he ever hoped for an epiphany like this? He still frowns at the words, because it isn't about what Merlin’s saying, but more how he says it. He speaks quietly, calmly, yet he sounds raw, like someone who’s been seriously shaken up.

Arthur nods, showing he’s listening.

“It’s not just that this guy is frighteningly relentless,” Merlin speaks again, even quieter, though his voice is less strained and the air about him mellowed. “And it’s not just that some things he’s done shouldn’t be physically possible.” He buries his face in his hands, and continues after a long pause. “I always _stupidly_ thought that my idea of protection is better than yours. That my wards are impenetrable. I couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Your what?” Arthur asks.

Merlin lifts his face. “I don't know what to do anymore.” He slips into a whisper. “I don't know how to keep us safe. What do I do, Arthur?”

Merlin’s never yielded to such a degree before, admitting his own powerlessness. Arthur’s drawn to him by protective instinct. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the side of Merlin’s cheek, but Merlin’s eyes flash in an illusion, two gold circles in the dark, and he leans away from Arthur’s touch with a shuddering, “Don’t.”  

Arthur pulls back, blinking, and the vision’s gone, leaving him bereft and aching.

“Will you stay to help us?” Merlin asks quietly.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs. He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t... You have too much going on; it’s impossible for me to protect you in such an environment.”

Merlin nods. “I see.” He looks up at Arthur. “I’m prepared to do anything at this point.”

“Anything…” Arthur echoes. He rubs his face, thinking, and suggests, “I’d want to take you away from here for a while,” not believing for a second that Merlin will agree.

His eyes have already adjusted enough to the dark to see Merlin blinking, his mouth opening and closing.

“All right, I’ll do it,” Merlin says after what seems like forever.

Arthur huffs, and challenges him, “That means canceling all your interviews, your appearances, and your charity concerts for the foreseeable future.”

The chair creaks under Merlin as he shifts. He takes a long, heaving breath, and nods. “All right.”  

“No more Kilgharrah. No Gaius. You’ll give Morgana, Elyan, and Percy a vacation.”

Merlin keeps nodding slowly. “I understand. Okay.”

“No one will know where we are, Merlin. There will be no cell reception. No internet.”

Merlin makes a small noise in his throat, then nods again, more firmly. “All right. I’ll do it.”

Arthur gets up from the table and stands in front of Merlin, looking down at him. “You sure?”

Merlin huffs. “I said, I’ll do it!”

Arthur warns him sternly, “Merlin, you cross me this time and I swear, I’ll kill you myself.” He can’t stop a smile in his voice. “I’m serious.”

Merlin sits quietly for so long without responding, Arthur thinks that--

“If you want to change your mind, Merlin--”

“No. I’m sure. But there’s one more thing...” Merlin gestures at a chair. “Sit down, Arthur. Before we go any further with this, I have something to tell you.”

******

“What do you know about magic?” Merlin asks, placing his palms on the table and shifting forward.

Arthur, sitting on the opposite side, looks at him, wondering if Merlin’s messing with him. He smiles. “Have you been spending too much time with Leon?”

“Leon?” Merlin asks. “What are you talking about?”

“No, what are _you_ talking about?” Arthur asks. “Magic. Your life is in danger, someone keeps finding their way into your house, and you’re choosing this time to talk about frivolous things that have no bearing on the situation.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Don't be so sure. And please don't be an arse. ’m trying to tell you something important.”

“Which is? ”

Merlin exhales and stills. “I’m magic, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts. “Yes, we know. You’re famous for a reason.”

“No, no.” Merlin’s face appears closer, his wide eyes a dark contrast against his pale skin, voice ringing with urgency. “I have magic, is what I’m saying, Arthur. It’s not a trick I learned. It’s not an illusion. I have magic. It’s _real_.”

And there it is again, a flash of gold in Merlin’s eyes. He breathes out a hushed word, and Arthur feels something. Something… like a brief, careful tap on his shoulder, a brush against the back of his neck, a soft sigh whispered at his ear. Arthur gasps.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls. “Say something.”

Arthur clears his throat and pushes his chair out.

“Where are you going?” Merlin asks.

“To turn the lights on.”

The lights come on that same instant on their own. Merlin’s done this before, Arthur recalls. Didn’t even clap or anything.

They both blink several times, getting used to the brightness. Merlin’s sitting with his arms crossed on his chest, head lowered defiantly.

Arthur can’t think of a single instance in his career when he was this baffled without a shred of an idea how to handle the situation. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Doing what?” Merlin asks.

“I just don’t understand what you’re trying to prove,” Arthur wonders. “I’ve seen your tricks before. I already know you’re good.”

“God, Arthur,” Merlin says, jumping to his feet. “Would you stop for a second and think? Everything you’ve seen me do, everything that you thought was an illusion. It was me, Arthur, it was all real. I’ve never hidden my magic from you.”

“I actually think you’ve hidden from me very well,” Arthur says bitterly.

Merlin stares at him, silent. And there's something… something in his expression...

“I was going to tell you…“ he murmurs. “That morning.”

“So now it’s my fault I was trying to do the right thing here?” Arthur snaps. “Don’t you understand that it wouldn’t have changed anything? I couldn’t protect you without having a clear head on my shoulders!”

Merlin gazes at him with a soft, sad expression, and if he’s trying to conceal the hurt in his eyes by smiling, it’s not working. “And now that you have it,” he says quietly, “nothing stops you from doing your job, right?”

Arthur can’t answer that, because no matter the answer, it would be a lie.

“Yeah,” Merlin whispers. “Well” --he clears his throat-- “now that that’s out in the open, it’s your decision what you’ll do next.”

Arthur hums, nodding. “I think,” he says, smoothing his hair, and Merlin looks at him expectantly, lips parted as if catching Arthur’s every word.  “I think,” Arthur repeats and meets Merlin’s eyes. “You should start packing.”

******

“So, the lake house,” Morgana says without prompting, which successfully knocks the wind out of Arthur, who was determined to stick it to her in this call.

“How did you…” Arthur makes an exasperated noise, deflating.

“I saw it,” Morgana answers simply.

Arthur swears under his breath. “You knew about Merlin’s magic, didn't you?”

Morgana sighs. “Sometimes I wonder, dear brother, how someone so intelligent can also be so dumb.”

“Thanks, Morgana, thanks a lot,” Arthur says, more irritated than hurt. “It was so nice of you to practically plant me in Merlin's life for your ulterior motives.”

“And what do you think they are?”

“I have no idea.”

“Think, Arthur.”

Arthur has. That's all he’s been doing in the past several hours while waiting for the Emrys household to pack. They’ve decided that only Mordred and Gwen will accompany Merlin and Freya on the trip -- not counting Arthur, of course, since he’ll be the one doing the driving. Arthur hasn’t uttered a word about where he’s taking them, for their own protection. Also, because he isn’t certain he’ll be welcome there.

“So?” Morgana rarely shows signs of genuine interest. Annoyance? Yes -- sometimes. Exasperation? Often. Low tolerance for bullshit? All the time. Today, she’s exemplarily patient.

“Do you have magic?” Arthur asks.

Morgana exhales softly in Arthur's ear. “Not really. I can just see things. Ahead of time.”

“Isn't it kind of the same thing?”

“I can't do much with it,” Morgana says.

“And Merlin?”

Arthur hears Morgana smile. “He’s special.”

Arthur snorts. “That's not what I asked.”

“Then what are you asking me?” Morgana says.

Arthur raises his voice. “I'm asking about his magic and what he can do with it.”

“In other words, whether you can trust him,” Morgana says, calmly. “I can't answer that question for you.”

“No. No. That's not it at all.” Arthur runs his hand through his hair. It’s crazy how his life has been upturned in a matter of just a few hours. Yet, the thought of leaving and never coming back here, the thought of being afraid of Merlin or his magic, seems to him even more preposterous. What is Merlin’s magic? Conjured butterflies, well-buttered popcorn, and daring gestures to profit a charity? He’s not afraid of Merlin.

“I’m afraid there are people around him who just use and abuse his talent for their personal gain,” he says, voicing his thoughts.

Morgana chuckles. “Oh, Arthur, why do you think I made sure it’s you and no one else is chosen to protect him?”

Morgana’s question startles Arthur.

“Why me?” he asks.

“Because you’re noble to a fault. Because you're _Arthur_. No matter the situation, you have the smarts -- admittedly limited, who am I kidding -- to always figure out the best plan, and a heart big enough to… Well, you’ll figure that part out too, eventually,” she says cryptically and adds, “don’t you see? You’ve been trusted, too. Aside from handful of people really close to him, Merlin’s been hiding his magic all his life, and it took you how long to find out? Three months?”

Arthur huffs, unsure how else to react to such a revelation. “Right. The _honor_.” And adds, “But you knew.”

“Because I knew what to look for. I was the one who discovered him, by the way, and brought him here from London.”

"But I thought Gaius--"

"You thought wrong. If it were up to Gaius, Merlin would never leave home."

Arthur’s curious. “Do all magicians have magic?”

Morgana snorts. “Be serious, Arthur.”

“Why is he a magician? Why can't he just be who he is?”

“Like coming out is easy,” Morgana says, patient with him still. “You should know that, Arthur.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. Yes, he should.

“Do you know a lot of people with magic?” he asks after a pause.

“A few, and among those who are a real deal, some prefer to stay private, and some I don’t trust at all. It’s a lonely world out there for someone like Merlin, Arthur.”

Arthur can only imagine. “So, the people who live with him,” he wonders, “they’re his only support system. ”

“And they’re his weakness, yes. And now you’re one of them,” Morgana says.

Arthur closes his eyes, trying to not let the enormity of this information overwhelm him.

Morgana makes a soft murmuring sound. “Now you’re getting it, brother.”

Arthur does.

“When are you leaving?” she asks. “Any idea for how long?”

“Early in the morning. For as long as it takes to catch the stalker. Leon’s on it. I'm sorry, Morgana, but your client will be indisposed indefinitely. And that's all anyone needs to know.”

Morgana sighs. “All right, I'll talk to Kilgharrah. He’ll try to wring my neck for this.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

He hears her smile. “I suppose. Don't gloat too much. I'll tell him it was your idea.”

Arthur laughs. “Of course you will.”

“Arthur,” she calls when he's ready to hang up. “You're doing the right thing. And he’ll be happy to see you.”

Arthur snorts, doubting it. “Another dream of yours?”

“No,” she says. “I just know.”

******

 

It’s a long ride, and it becomes evident quickly that everyone’s patience will be thoroughly tested in the upcoming hours, with Freya acting like a two-year-old.

“Where are we going?” she whines, squirming out of Gwen’s hand smoothing her shoulder. “I want to go home.”

“We can’t, sweetheart,” Gwen explains patiently. “Not for a while. Remember what we told you?”

“You said it’ll be fun. Like a road trip.” Freya pouts. “This is boring.”

Darting a sidelong glance at Merlin next to him in the passenger seat, Arthur asks, “Do you guys want to stop for a break? Stretch your legs?”

Merlin shakes his head, chewing on his thumbnail. “No, we just did an hour ago, let’s keep going. Frey.” he turns to his loudly-unhappy sister. “Wanna watch a movie?”

She perks up. “Which one?”

“Anything you want,” Merlin says. “Mordred, could you?”

Mordred, dozing off with his head against the window, pulls himself up. “Sure,” he rasps, though it sounds like lifting a finger is absolutely the last thing he wants to do. Rummaging through a backpack at his feet, he takes out a tablet and headphones and hands them to Freya. “Pick whatever you want.”

“Why don’t we take your dolly and put it in the back, sweetie?” Gwen asks, pulling on the straw doll Freya never parts with these days.

Freya clutches the doll with a death grip. “No. She’ll watch the film with me.”

“She could use some rest, darling. Look, her eyes are droopy and her dress needs a bit of a fixing-up.”

Gwen is being kind here. The doll is missing one eye, completely smudged, and its dress is no longer pink, grubby with stains and dirt. Also, the doll stinks, which is especially noticeable in the confines of the car.

“No,” the stubborn child says.

Merlin covers his eyes with a hand and sighs. 

“How much longer?” he asks quietly after an hour spent in silence, with Freya finally zonked out and Gwen and Mordred asleep as well, lulled by the endless road.  

Arthur glances at Merlin. “If this is your way of trying to fish out the location from me, you should try to be more subtle,” he says, hiding a smile.

“I can read road signs, you know,” Merlin reminds him, amused.

Arthur snorts. “And how is it working for you so far?”

“Honestly?” Merlin says. “We’ve been driving for almost six hours and I still have no clue where you’re taking us.”

“Worried?” Arthur asks, raising a brow.

“No.” Merlin turns serious instantly. “I trust you.”

Arthur looks at him for a long moment before turning his attention back to the road.

Merlin shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. “Arthur.”

Arthur hears it in his voice and shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“What?” Merlin asks.

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it. I need some time to wrap my head around it all.”

“Don’t you want to know more? I mean...” Merlin trails off.

Arthur fiddles with the radio, which starts hissing, the channel going out of range, and he throws his hand up in frustration. “I don’t know, okay? Yes, I’m curious. But unless you think your magic has anything to do with this stalker, I don’t think I want to discuss it yet. It’s too much. One thing at a time, okay?”

Arthur feels Merlin’s long gaze on him and tenses, knowing he isn’t being fair but unable to offer a better response. He’s already stretched to the limit with his sudden responsibilities for four people, including an unruly child. Does the fact that at least one passenger in this car apparently has magic -- _real_ magic -- have to be thrown into the mix of his worries?  

“Maybe it does,” Merlin says after a few minutes, biting his lip.  

“Sorry?”

“The stalker.” Merlin turns to face Arthur. “It’s been bothering me. Remember the incident with Elyan?”

Arthur purses his lips and nods.

“That was magic, Arthur. I could tell the moment I touched his burnt shirt. It was no fire. It was a powerful spell.”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Shit.” So Leon had been onto something even before anyone else was. “So you think he…”

“Has magic?” Merlin asks. “No, that’s the thing. The wish pouch, right?”

Arthur needs a moment to catch on. “You mean the hex bag?”

“Yeah, whatever you want to call it. Whoever put it together had no concept of how enchantments work. It’s just a collection of random things that don’t mean anything without a proper spell.”

“Do you even know what was in that pouch?” Arthur asks, making a disgusted face, remembering.

Merlin nods with a similar expression. “Leon let me see it. Zero magic there, believe me, nothing but creepy bits of keepsakes thrown in.” 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says.

Merlin smiles. “Why? It isn’t your fault. I’m sorry it came down to this.” He waves at the three sleeping people in the back.

Arthur makes a noise of protest. “No, Merlin, I’m doing this because I want to. It’s not just the job.” He freezes, realizing what he’s just said. The soft smile on Merlin’s face doesn’t help the matter. Arthur attempts to backpedal. “What I mean is…”

“It’s all right, Arthur,” Merlin says, voice gentle. “I won’t hold it against you.” He pauses and adds, quieter, looking at him briefly, “But I’m glad you're here.”

******

Arthur can’t say he isn’t nervous conquering the last stretch of the winding road towards their destination, though Morgana had convinced him he’d be welcome at their childhood summer house. It’s close to nine p.m., and after over twelve hours of driving, Merlin is quiet and Freya is restless and unbearably cranky, Gwen and Mordred squabbling incessantly over her. They’ve all gone stir-crazy, irritating each other at an alarming level.

Arthur’s exhausted, having worried himself for so long, imagining the worst about this trip, that by the time he sees the familiar shape of the house ahead, a few windows lit up in invitation, he’s actually relieved.

“Are we there yet?” Freya asks in a voice that conveys a clear message that there will be hell to pay if the answer is no.

“Yes, we are,” Arthur confirms.

As they roll up onto the driveway, a man comes out of the house and stops expectantly at the top of the stairs. His tall, slightly crooked figure is illuminated by the sparse porch light.

“Who is this?” Mordred asks.

“This,” Arthur says, parking, “is Uther Pendragon, my father, and if you think I’ve been stringent with you, wait until you meet this man.”

**  
  
**

******

Arthur hovers at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hello, Father,” he greets Uther in a low, careful voice.  

“Hello, Son,” Uther says and beckons for Arthur. “Come up here.”

Arthur glances back at his companions, lingering by the car. Well, it’s time to man up, he decides and climbs up the steps.

For a stilted moment, they shift from foot to foot, a few paces from each other.

“How have you been?” Arthur asks.

“Still kicking,” Uther responds. “You?”

“Yeah… Did Morgana call?” Arthur asks, unsure what else to say.

“She did,” his father confirms. “You could’ve done it yourself.”

“Um… About that.” Arthur coughs into his hand. “I know I haven’t always been--”

In a completely unexpected move, Uther reaches for Arthur and pulls him into an awkward but definite hug.

Arthur makes a startled noise before reluctantly returning the hug. Uther’s lost weight, his shoulder bones sharp under Arthur’s embrace, his cold cheek scratchy with stubble. Arthur doesn’t ever remember his father not clean shaven, and his heart clenches at these subtle signs of him growing older.

Uther steps back, his hands still on Arthur’s shoulders. He evaluates his son from head to toe at close distance, as if not believing he’s really here. “Sometimes I forget how grown-up you already are,” he says, sounding proud and fond, and this is such a rare display of affection from his normally taciturn father, Arthur’s rendered speechless again.

“All right.” Uther finally lets him go and nods at the guests, smiling. “Are they all in trouble?”

Arthur huffs. “No. Just one.”

“Well…” Uther waves at them. “What are you standing there for? Get your things and come in. Dinner’s always at seven in this house. You’re late, so if you want it hot, you’ll have to heat it up yourself.”

Arthur snorts, unreasonably happy that upon closer inspection, his father hasn’t changed at all.

 

******

**  
**

“It’s quiet here,” Merlin murmurs to Arthur, who’s on his knees, struggling with the pilot light in the gas stove.

Uther’s grilling an increasingly uncomfortable Mordred about his plans for the future, while Gwen is braiding Freya’s dark locks. Clearly a city kid, Freya’s spent the last thirty minutes exploring each corner of the rustic house, curious about every little thing. Uther had displayed such an exemplary patience with the little girl, indulging her curiosity, that he probably decided it was his turn to play inquisitor. Poor Mordred did not see it coming.

“We used to spend every summer and winter break here,” Arthur says. “Swimming and skiing are big in the mountains.” He swears under his breath when another match fizzles between his fingers.

Merlin, standing with his back against the wall next to Arthur, one leg propped up, chuckles and Arthur glances at him, catching a telltale flash in Merlin’s eyes.

He follows Merlin’s gaze, catching him checking out his ass.

Arthur throws a matchbox at Merlin. “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you, you asshat.”

Merlin laughs, dodging it. “Can you blame me?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur drawls, rising to his feet. “How about you make yourself useful and light it up yourself.”

Scoffing, Merlin reaches for the matchbox on the floor.

“Nuh-uh,” Arthur says, blocking it with his foot. “Anyone can do it that way.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging Merlin.

It takes a second for Merlin to comprehend what Arthur means -- what Arthur’s asking him to do.

Merlin stiffens, eyes lingering on Arthur’s face, unsure and hopeful. Arthur tilts his head in invitation. _Yes, it’s okay, I want to see it._

Merlin grins and against all Arthur’s expectations, his irises don’t change color in an instant, but transform gradually, from dark blue to molten gold, from simply beautiful to extraordinary.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and it comes out a little broken, like it’s a spell he can’t hold back. The intensity of the expression on Merlin’s face wipes Arthur of all his thoughts, his legs liquefying as he feels Merlin’s magic, bright and _loving_ , swirl towards him, eager. It brushes over his knuckles, runs up his naked arms under the jacket, sweeps up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck, and stops, a lingering warm breath at his lips.

Arthur sways on his feet, gasping. “Stop.”

Merlin blinks, paling, and his magic retreats in such haste, Arthur shivers in its wake.

Merlin murmurs, “I'm sorry.”

By the time Arthur’s gathered his bearings, Merlin’s gone. He squats in front of the stove again and finds that it’s unnecessary -- the pilot light is already on.

******

After dinner and cleaning up, they’re all in the living room where Gwen’s fussing over Uther, who’s sitting obediently with a bunch of needles covering his face. They’re around his nose, his mouth, between his brows, on each temple, and one, sticking out rather proudly, is right on the top of his head.

Arthur can’t help a laugh. “A little too late for a facelift, Dad.”

“Shush,” Gwen says. “Your father is still young. This treatment is to help the blood circulation and decrease chances of clotting.”

“I feel better already,” Uther declares.

“See?” Gwen says, smiling, and looks at Arthur. “You’re next.”

Arthur shudders. “No way in hell.”

They all laugh.

“So, shall we?” Uther asks, gesturing at the small table next to him, the chess board sitting on top of it. Arthur recognizes the game.

Arthur looks around the room. Mordred’s reading; Merlin’s standing at the window, looking pensively into the dark. Freya plops herself at Uther’s feet, giddy.

Arthur shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

“Yes, I thought so.” Uther rubs his hands together. He looks at Gwen. “All right, young lady, get these things off me. This is a serious game.”

“What, afraid you don’t look intimidating enough?” Arthur asks, smiling. He turns the chessboard around and blows the dust off the chess pieces. “I’m black, right?”

Uther waves off Gwen, who’s still fluttering around him, and slaps Arthur’s hand. “Don’t touch that. You know you’re white. It’s my move.”

Merlin turns around, now paying attention to the group more.

“Your move?” Arthur takes a sip of his beer. “You’re sure?” he teases.

“Last move, my rook took your bishop, and you followed by advancing a pawn. Right there,” Uther insists, one needle still stuck between his brows.

Arthur chuckles. Seeing his father in a good mood helps his mood as well. Studying the board for a while, he nods. “Yeah, that’s right.” He wipes his mouth and blows on his fingers, noticing how Merlin leaves his post by the window and creeps a little closer. “You’re on.”

“How long has this game been going on?” Gwen asks.

Freya lays her head on Arthur’s foot, looking up at him, her mouth parted a little in fascination.

Merlin finds a spot by the fireplace and sits down, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees; his eyes find Arthur’s and Arthur has a hard time looking away.

Arthur wonders how it is that even when he knows Merlin’s in the safest place on Earth, he still has to thump down the urge to pull Merlin closer, wedge him somewhere between himself and the wall for better protection, because only then can Arthur really breathe.

“Arthur?” Gwen says.

Everyone’s looking at Arthur expectantly and he remembers the question. “Hm? Oh.” He glances at his father, finding more tenderness in Uther's expression than he’s ever seen before. And then it dawns on him that maybe Uther Pendragon, former media mogul and shrewd businessman, has always looked at his children this way. Arthur had just never cared to notice, too busy with his own problems that somehow always seemed more important than anything else. Yes, he’d blamed him for forcing him into military school -- the last place he wanted to be in at the time.

The truth is, he appreciates it now. By eighteen, he was a spoiled, self-involved brat, and him being gay had had nothing to do with his father’s decision. His father might have suspected, but in reality, Arthur didn’t fully embrace it himself until he was close to twenty.

He meets his father’s eyes and his father smiles and nods, as if reading his thoughts.

“Four years,” Arthur says, answering Gwen’s question. “We started it four years ago.”

Gwen stops smiling. Merlin leans forward, his mouth slightly opening. Mordred looks at Arthur over his book, then at Merlin, and returns to reading.

For the next hour, everyone’s entranced by the dance of the chess figures on the board and the blitz of commentary between father and son. This doesn’t leave Arthur with an overly sweet or sentimental feeling, but it’s certainly therapeutic; it feels like he’s home.

At the end of the night, when Arthur carries the sleeping Freya into the room set up for her and Gwen, Merlin follows a step behind. Freya whimpers something before settling in her bed, finally losing her grip on the poor tattered doll. And then it’s Arthur who follows Merlin, escorting him into his room. He checks it first, unable to help himself, and steps out, letting Merlin go in.

Once back in the hallway, he turns to say good night, but Merlin’s right there, close.

Merlin rests his head on the edge of the door. He murmurs, “I envy you, you know.”

Arthur frowns. “Why?”

“I never knew my father. He left mum before I was born.”

Arthur shifts half a step closer. “I’m sorry.” 

Merlin sighs and shrugs. “Mum loved me for the both of them, I suppose.”

“What about Freya?” Arthur knows very basic details of their lives, and hearing Merlin share more means a lot to him.

“He had her with someone else. I was contacted two years after mum died. Don’t know how they found me, but it turned out I was the only relative Freya had left.” Merlin huffs, shaking his head. “I was bloody nineteen; had no clue what I was doing. But I couldn’t send her to a children’s home, you know?”

Arthur nods, rubbing his shoulder. It’s been a long day that has somehow turned out not at all how he expected. “What happened to her parents?” he asks.

“Don’t know and didn’t care. Freya’s mine now.” Merlin exhales heavily.

“Does she remember them?” Arthur asks.

Merlin tuts. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t even four then... We don’t talk about it.” He gazes at Arthur. “Do you think I should?”

Arthur scratches his head, smiling. “I honestly have no clue, Merlin. Ask Gaius, maybe?”

“Yeah.” Merlin nods. “Maybe.”

They linger for a beat longer in silence, Arthur unwilling to break this quiet, private moment and Merlin looking like he feels the same.

Merlin finally shifts with a sigh. “Good night, Arthur. Thank you.” He smiles softly. “It was good to hear you laugh.”

The door closes, and Arthur stands there and stares at it for a lot longer than he reasonably should.

******

Arthur’s been up for almost twenty-four hours and it’s catching up with him fast. Walking around the house, already turned down for the night, he locks up all windows and doors. He’s looking forward to a hot shower, much required for his aching shoulder, and possibly to getting himself off. It’s been a while...

When he turns around, Mordred’s there, waiting for him in the quiet hallway. “You are very thorough.”

Arthur sighs and continues to walk.

Mordred follows him. “What’s happening between you and Merlin? One minute you’re all he’s talking about. Next, he leaves the room the second you walk in. Now it’s all lovey-dovey again.”

Arthur glances at him. “I thought Freya was your responsibility, not Merlin. He’s a big boy.”

“He’s my best mate. I’ve known him since sixth form,” Mordred scoffs. “That’s high school for you Americans.”

“I know what sixth form is,” Arthur dismisses him. “What do you need, Mordred?”

Mordred blocks his path out of the kitchen, where Arthur’s already locked the window and turned off the lights. “You must think I’m a tosser who’s not worth your time.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No.”

“Well, maybe _I_ think that.”

Arthur calmly moves Mordred to the side. “Maybe you should do something about it.”

His foot is already in the hall when Mordred pulls him back into the kitchen and presses him into the nearest wall, his mouth seeking Arthur’s. He’s trembling, fingers digging into Arthur’s arm. Arthur freezes, not pushing him away, but certainly not welcoming Mordred’s kiss. It’s not Arthur who should be teaching Mordred a lesson about personal space here; it’s Mordred who needs to learn one. Arthur waits.

Mordred presses another kiss, a lot less certain, into the corner of Arthur’s unmoving mouth and finally steps back, eyes searching Arthur’s for a response that’s not coming. He releases Arthur’s arm, his shoulders slumping.  Grimacing, he says, “That wasn’t it then, huh?”

“You’re a good guy, Mordred,” Arthur says, not wishing to further batter his obviously already-fragile ego.

Mordred snorts. “But not good enough for you. Merlin is.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“No,” Mordred bites out. “But you’d let me if I were your boss.” He stalks past him, footsteps loud across the hall.

******

The next few days are relatively uneventful, which is more than Arthur can ask for after the summer they’ve all had.

Mordred’s avoiding him, spending most of his time either alone in his room or with Freya, who’s stomped her feet and declared Mordred useless too many times to count.

“I don’t know what’s up with her. She’s never been this petulant,” Merlin mutters to Gwen. “Do you think it’s her age? She’s not even a teenager yet.”

“Too many changes, Merlin,” Gwen suggests. “The girl needs stability, balance.”

“Oh my god,” Merlin groans. “Stop with your neo-holistic shite already. If you mention healthy diet, yoga, or naturopathy one more time, I’ll go bonkers, I swear,” he promises hotly. “I’m doing my best here. It’s not my fault some idiot is after me.”

“Merlin,” Gwen says.

Merlin raises his voice. “I need more time, all right? Things will change.”

“Or not,” Gwen says.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur asks, walking into the room, guessing it’s something to do with Merlin’s big break.

Gwen and Merlin look at him, startled. Merlin sets his jaw, looking away.

“Nothing,” Gwen says. Then adds, “It’s Freya. And Mordred being an arse.”

Arthur grimaces. He looks through the window outside. “Do you guys maybe want to go for a swim? I mean, until Father comes back with the groceries from his trip to town, at least.”

His suggestion is met with resounding enthusiasm.

******

The sun is high and the water blissfully warm in the middle of this late-summer afternoon. Arthur would spend all day in the lake if he could. And he’d love to, considering the view he’s been treated with for the past few hours.

Merlin’s driving him nuts.

He manages to look sexy even in Arthur’s old trunks, which are constantly sliding low on his hips, too loose. Merlin’s like a tall glass of water -- broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips -- and Arthur wishes for nothing more than to drink him up, taste every sharp angle and every inch of that smooth skin, kissed by sun and licked by currents. Arthur’s horny out of his mind, and goddammit, he’s probably too obvious about it, because it seems as if Merlin reads him like an open book.

Smirking, he dives into the water right before Arthur, his body slicking past the front of his trunks, hands briefly-grabby at the back of Arthur’s knees and ankles and then gone, leaving Arthur wanting. Arthur's laugh bounces, free and happy, across the lake, echoing in the treeline by the shore. He waits for Merlin to come up so he can surprise him with a splash of water in his face, but Merlin doesn’t appear for so long, that Arthur stops laughing.

He dives in, too, with his eyes open, swirling around, looking for Merlin. There’s no sign of him.

“Merlin,” Arthur screams, water pouring into his mouth, and he pushes himself to the surface, gasping for breath.

He barely gets any in, when he feels a strong, sure hand tug sharply on his ankle, pulling him down.

 _Oh, you little shit,_ Arthur thinks when Merlin’s face appears before him in the water. Eyes huge and blue, mouth grinning and oh-so-kissable. Merlin says something, letting out a cluster of bubbles. Arthur doesn’t wait another moment. He jumps on top of Merlin, pressing his head down. Revenge couldn’t be sweeter when Merlin emerges from water, sputtering and gasping.

Arthur laughs, splashing him. “You fucking cheat. You used magic, didn’t you?”

Merlin bats his eyes, wet lashes clumping together. “What you’re on about?”

“Oh you--” Arthur’s ready with a perfect comeback when he hears a scream.

“Freya! Oh my god! Merlin! Merlin!”

Arthur and Merlin jump up, turning to the shore. Gwen, face ashen-white, mouth twisted in horror, is running towards them.

“Gwen, what’s wrong?” Merlin yells, rushing out of the water. “Where’s Freya?”

“Christ, Merlin! I don’t know! She was literally just here on the shore, playing! I blinked and she was gone.” Gwen paces along the shoreline.

“Did you see her going into the lake?” Merlin’s yelling. Reaching her with a few strides, he grabs her by the shoulders.

“I don’t know!” Gwen’s hysterical. “I… I don’t know what happened.”

Knowing how precious time is in a situation like this, Arthur takes over. He wades closer to them so they can hear him and orders, “Gwen, stay right there. Merlin.” He nods for Merlin to get back into the lake.

He dives back into the water first, turning this way and that, looking for any sign of the little girl. There’s none.

Arthur comes up for air, Gwen’s crying while pacing along the shoreline and calling for Freya. He catches a glimpse of Merlin underwater, moving jerkily, frantically. Taking another deep breath, Arthur sinks into the lake again, and swims with quick strokes in the direction opposite to Merlin’s, mentally dividing the search area into sections.

He’s calm and he has a plan, years of training kicking in, and once he’s in the zone, eyes focused, mind clear, it takes him no more than ten seconds to spot a familiar shape ahead, Freya’s dark hair and light-blue dress billowing around her body, floating right beneath the surface.

Five precious seconds more and he’s pulling her into his arms and out of the water.

“Freya, oh god! Freya!” Gwen screams, meeting him halfway. “Merlin, Arthur’s got her! Merlin!”

Arthur calmly shoulders Gwen out of the way and lowers the little girl to the ground, bringing his ear to her chest. He doesn’t hear anything, but he doesn’t let it discourage him, ready to start CPR, when Merlin stops him. His hand on Arthur’s arm is firm.

“Let _me_.”

Merlin’s eerily calm, almost serene, eyes sober and determined. Arthur gets out of his way.

Placing his hands on Freya’s small chest, Merlin whispers something with his eyes closed, and Arthur can see light flickering even through his lowered lids. Arthur doesn’t feel it, maybe because Merlin’s magic isn’t directed at him, but he can see the evidence of it in the wind ruffling the grass around Freya and fanning her face.

“That’s it, love,” Merlin whispers, massaging her little shoulders. “That’s it. You’re good. Breathe, Frey.”

They all hold their breath, waiting, and after an excruciating moment that feels like an eternity, Arthur thinks he sees Freya’s lashes flutter. Merlin makes an encouraging noise, stroking her face. The little girl’s mouth twitches, small hiccups escaping, and Merlin immediately turns her to her side. Freya gasps for air and starts coughing. Then she vomits.

“There, sweetheart,” Merlin says, soothing her hair back with his hand. “You’re all right.”

Freya starts to cry. Gwen follows. And it would be all resolved and settled to everyone’s immense relief if Arthur didn’t notice one very curious, very alarming thing.

******

“Merlin, what’s this?” Arthur asks, pointing at something Freya’s gripping in one hand.

At first, he thinks it’s algae or something from the lake, but then why is this thing the color of black tar?

Merlin stops fussing over Freya, his gaze following Arthur’s finger. Carefully lifting her hand by her wrist, he studies the thing, even sniffs it.

“Christ,” he hisses and, quickly untangling it from Freya’s fingers, throws it a few feet away. “It’s cursed.”

“Noooo,” Freya cries. “My dolly.”

Merlin looks at her. “What did you say?”

“Why did you throw my dolly away?”

Chills run down Arthur’s spine, and judging by Merlin’s frightened expression, they’re thinking the same thing.

They look at each other, and both start to get up.

“Gwen, can you take Freya into the house?” Arthur suggests. “We’ll be right in.”

“No,” Merlin snaps. “Arthur, you go with them. I’ll be right behind you.”

Arthur gets it right away: Merlin doesn’t think the girls should be alone. Even here, up in the mountains and in the middle of nowhere, they’re no longer safe. The thought angers and crushes him. Can they ever catch a break?

Gwen helps a whining Freya to her feet and pulls her up into her arms. “You’ll be fine, love. It’s over. It’s all over.”

Arthur doubts it.

He follows Gwen, and Merlin joins them less than a minute later, but not before extending his hand towards the black tangled of something that looks more like the tentacles of some deadly creature than an innocent straw doll. Arthur catches the moment when Merlin’s eyes flash and the former doll blows up, its pieces flying everywhere along with the bits of soil, grass, and small rocks.

Mordred and Uther come out of the house, probably having heard Freya’s inconsolable crying after losing her favorite toy.

“What’s happened?” Uther asks.

Merlin looks at Arthur and shakes his head slightly. Arthur knows it -- it’s not his secret to tell.  But he has to provide some sort of explanation to his father, who’s far from naive and is too observant.

“Arthur, I’m taking Freya into the house,” Gwen says. “I need to monitor her.”

Arthur nods. He’s no longer in vacation mode, berating himself for slipping up so terribly.

Once it’s just Merlin, his father, and him, he says, “Father, there’s been an unfortunate incident, and we think that whoever’s stalking Merlin was and possibly still is around the perimeter somewhere.”

Uther curses loudly. “How?”

“Someone pushed Freya into the water,” Merlin says, not batting an eye, a lot smoother than Arthur anticipated.

“And where were you two bozos?” Uther asks, leveling a harsh stare at his son.

Arthur hangs his head. “We…” He takes a deep breath, not looking at Merlin. “It won’t happen again.”

Merlin shifts next to him. “I was there too, so--”

Arthur cuts him off. “I should’ve watched after all of you. It’s my responsibility.”

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” Uther says. “Let’s get into the house. I’m calling the police.”

“No,” Merlin says. “No police.”

Uther looks at him like he’s deranged. “Did you not just tell me your sister was endangered?”

This time Arthur’s the one who steps in, offering the smoothest excuse he can come up with. “Dad, Merlin’s pretty known in showbiz. This is a private matter that we’ve already been working to resolve privately. If this leaks -- and it will leak, considering this small community -- it will only hurt Merlin. But I promise you, I will call Leon, who’s been helping to monitor Merlin’s case. You know Leon. He’s like a dog after a bone once he gives you a promise.”

Uther mulls over it. He scrutinizes Arthur, making him uncomfortable. ”You’re not telling me something, aren’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t blink, staring back at him.

Uther turns to Merlin. “You’re that kid Morgana discovered two years ago, am I right?”

Merlin shrugs. “Um. I dunno. I’m not her only client.”

“No, it’s definitely you. The young Brit who does magic tricks she signed with Kilgharrah, that washed-up old snake, over my head. It’s you.”

This is the first time Arthur witnesses Merlin not object to the word “trick”. He just nods and shrugs.

Uther huffs, looking at him with new eyes. “She kept you a secret from me for a while. Bless her little rebellious heart.”

Arthur snorts. Sometimes he doubts she has one at all. But Morgana being daddy’s little girl, he’s smart enough not to say that out loud if he doesn’t want to get flicked in the head, or worse -- _grounded_. Uther will sure find a way. He knows his father.

“She was afraid I’d corrupt you. Like Kilgharrah’s better. I bet they concocted quite a story for you.”

Merlin shifts from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not a made-up story you sell,” he mutters.

Uther tsks. “Let me tell you, Son, nothing sells better in Tinseltown than a made-up story about a poor orphan kid and his struggles.”

“Well, I’m not an orphan or poor,” Merlin says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pendragon, can we please go inside?”

Arthur waves. “Yes, please go. I’ll be right there, all right?”

Merlin goes, head high and shoulders squared.

**  
**

******

Without really discussing it, everyone agrees on returning to LA as soon as possible. Arthur can’t argue with that.  Still, Gwen wants to monitor Freya for at least twenty-four hours before they go anywhere.  Arthur tries to call Leon from the main line, getting his voicemail again.

“Do you want me to ward the house?” Merlin asks, watching Arthur pace in the kitchen.

Arthur stops. “You think it’s necessary?”

“I don’t know. As a precaution?”

Arthur looks at the deflated Merlin, understanding now what he meant that night when he told Arthur about his magic. Merlin hadn’t cared for Arthur’s security measures in the house because he thought his own system was infallible, until he was proven wrong.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Merlin says. “Someone still got into the house and taped Freya. And that doll... Who in the hell gave it to her?" He shivers, the feeling echoing in the way of goosebumps running across Arthur's spine. "But I know better now. I was arrogant. I’ll use stronger protection spells, and we won't let her out of our sight.”

Arthur rubs his forehead, letting out a deep sigh.

“If there’s something I can do, Arthur, I want to do it. Tonight.”

Merlin’s so earnest and so damn determined, Arthur considers it. If this is what Merlin needs to feel safer, then yes, he should do it. Because really, it’s this or just Arthur with his gun and a knife. Potentially against magic. Magic that at this point he has no doubt lured Merlin’s little sister into the lake and nearly drowned her.

He preferred Merlin’s butterflies, to be honest.

Arthur curses.  

“Yeah, okay, Merlin, go for it.” He allows it, having never felt this useless in his life.

“What are you going to do, Son?” Uther asks later, when they’re all huddled inside the house on complete lockdown, conferring their next steps.

Arthur can’t recall a time when Uther had actually asked him for personal advice that could potentially change the course of their lives. Ask not in a, _You can say it, but I’ll do as I see fit anyway,_ kind of way, but more like, _You know better. I trust you._

Somewhat encouraged, Arthur looks at this watch. “We’re staying at least for tonight for Freya’s sake. Thank God we’re stocked up on food and water.”

“You know you wouldn’t starve for one night without your favorite cereal,” Uther scolds him.

“Yeah, but I always think better when my stomach’s full of Lucky Charms,” Arthur argues.

“I like Lucky Charms,” Freya whispers. “Can I have some?”

Babbling, and obviously immensely relieved that Freya’s finally coming back to herself after the shock of her life and is even hungry, Gwen leads her into the kitchen.

“How about a drink?” Uther asks loudly. “I think we could all use one.”

Mordred, who already looks a little too green sober, walks to Uther’s liquor cabinet. Without asking for permission, he pulls a still-sealed bottle, clear liquid sloshing inside, and crosses the room, leaving.

“Don’t you want a little tonic with all that gin, Son?” Uther asks teasingly.

Mordred snorts without sparing a look at them and disappears in the hallway.

“You should watch out for that kid, you know,” Uther says, getting up. “Something’s not right with him.”

Merlin frowns and sighs. Arthur has no comment.

******

With Uther already retired for the night, Merlin is opting to spend it with Gwen and Freya in their bedroom upstairs. Arthur makes sure they’re all settled in, every window sealed shut, every air duct blocked by some piece of furniture. Although Merlin sees no sense in that, he indulges Arthur, helping him to secure the place the best Arthur knows how.

It’s well past midnight and Arthur’s on the main level, too unsettled to sleep, his mind unable to shut down nor his body. He hears a sound, a clink of a glass, some creaking. Picking up his gun from the arm chair next to him, he rises to his feet, trying not to make a sound.

Another soft noise brings Arthur to the room across the hallway -- to Mordred’s room. He opens the door carefully, gun by his face, and points it at the window first. The curtains are drawn, but the nightstand lamp is on, softly illuminating Mordred on his bed, rocking back and forth, the mattress springs under him gently complaining.  

He raises his head from his knees and looks at Arthur. His eyes are bloodshot, mouth wet, scowling. He shifts, unfolding, and reaches for the half-empty bottle on the stand.

“I was an idiot the other night,” he says forcefully, words slurring. “And I failed Freya today. I’m a failure.”

So, it’s a pity party in full swing here.

Arthur steps inside and quietly closes the door. Mordred swigs a long pull from the bottle.

Arthur sighs. “I think you should put that down. That’s enough, Mordred.”

Mordred ignores the order, taking another swig before asking, miserable, “You know it wasn’t an accident today, don’t you?”

Arthur crosses the room and firmly takes the bottle from Mordred’s slack hand. “It didn’t look like it, no. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Mordred looks at the bottle in Arthur’s hands with longing. He gulps. “I can’t. It’s a secret. Merlin will kill me.”

Arthur puts the bottle down next to him on the floor. “Not if someone kills him first.”

Mordred licks his dry lips, a drunk, unsettled glint in his eyes. “No. I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

Arthur considers Mordred for a moment. Carefully, he asks, “Is this something to do with Merlin and magic?” 

Mordred’s head snaps up. “You know about that?”

Arthur nods. “He told me. So you see, you can tell me the rest.”

Mordred snorts. “I shouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t even bother hiding when it came to you. Idiot.” He raises his eyes to Arthur’s, smiling with the corner of his mouth. “I don’t blame him, you know.” He heaves a sigh. “But why does he get to have everything?”

Arthur can see where it’s all going and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Do you want everything taken away from Merlin?” he asks, using the mildest tone he can manage. “Is that what this is all about?”

Mordred sobs. “No! I-- I have nothing to do with it! But they almost got the little girl, Arthur! They almost got Freya.”

Arthur pulls himself up, his heart lurching. “Who are ‘they’, Mordred?”

Mordred sobs harder, muffling his mouth with his arm. “I don’t know, okay?” he cries. “I don’t know who they are!”   

Arthur pulls a chair to the bed and sits down, facing the crying man. “Why don’t you tell me what you know so we can figure it out? You and me, all right? Together.”

Mordred shakes his head.

“No... I see. Do you want Freya hurt again?”

It’s a shitty move, but Arthur is not above whatever tactics are necessary to press all Mordred’s buttons to make him talk, and this one is obviously the most triggering.

“Christ, no.” Mordred pulls on his hair. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve watched after her today.”

“You should’ve,” Arthur agrees. “But not just you. We all failed her today. And if you think it might happen again, you have to tell me how to stop it.”

Mordred sniffles and stares somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder, unblinking, then he nods. “Kilgharrah’s in trouble,” he finally says. “Money.”

Arthur can’t say he likes Merlin’s agent that much and he could always tell Kilgharrah was no Mother Theresa, but he didn’t expect to hear _his_ name out of Mordred’s mouth.

“You think Kilgharrah’s behind Merlin’s stalking? That he was here today?”

It’s hard to believe but entirely possible that Kilgharrah figured out where Arthur took Merlin’s family, though. After all, Dragoy knows Uther Pendragon, and what if he’s heard of this place, being an exclusive property in Aspen? What if Kilgharrah had been here before Uther became a recluse after his stroke. Why didn’t Arthur think about this before?

Mordred huffs. “No, of course not.”

“Then what are you saying?” Arthur asks, harsher this time.

Mordred smacks his lips. “Did you know,” he says almost accusingly, “that Merlin is Kilgharrah’s only client? The old man might want you to think otherwise, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. He doesn’t have anyone else, and he’s nearly broke. Merlin keeps him afloat.”

Arthur digests this information. “Does Merlin know about this? Morgana?”

Mordred sighs. “I don’t know about Morgana. When she first contacted Merlin, she told him she knew he was magic right away. And before Merlin moved to LA, she promised him an agent who’d fully embrace Merlin’s special skills.” Mordred makes air quotes. “You understand, with someone like Merlin, it’s a whole new strat… strategy. A whole new reper... pertoire if Merlin could use magic safely in his shows. She didn’t want him in trouble.” Mordred’s starting to slur more.

“I see,” Arthur says. That makes sense. All of it makes sense. Even Morgana’s motivations. But it still isn’t adding up. “Why would Kilgharrah threaten or even try to kill Merlin if he’s his golden ticket?”

Mordred laughs bitterly. “Oh, he didn’t. Kilgharrah'd go bankrupt without Merlin.  It’s not him. He doesn’t even have magic. If he had any, it fizzled a long time ago, or at least that’s what Merlin thinks.”

“Then who?!” Arthur demands.

Mordred swings his legs down, placing his feet on the floor. He sways a little and the smell of alcohol on his breath is overpowering when he leans into Arthur’s space. “I. Don’t. Know. I don't know.” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling. “Poor Freya--”

Arthur grabs him by his shirt and pulls in, their faces an inch apart.

“Who.”

Mordred flails. “There were a couple of calls, okay? Directly to Merlin, and not through Kil’s office.”

“What kind of calls? Death threats?”

“Not like the death threat letters. Those started earlier. I don’t know who’s sending them.”

“Jesus Christ.” Arthur lets Mordred go. He runs a rough hand through his hair. “What were the calls about?”

“Offers. Suggestions they knew who he was. And if he works for them, with his special talents, he’ll have much better money, more fame. If not, he’ll lose everything.”

“Was it the same person calling?”

“Merlin didn’t say.”

“How did he react?”

“He didn’t pay them any mind. His entire goal in coming to the States was to learn more about how to harness his magic, find support from people like him, but obviously not people like that.”

“What about Morgana?”

“I don’t think he ever told her. I think she meant for Kilgharrah to be his mentor. Except he turned out to be a greedy bastard, too.”

Arthur can’t disagree with that.

“Just so you know,” Mordred slurs, “Merlin’s been wanting to come out with his magic for a while and Kilgharrah’s dead against it. Merlin doesn't think he has many choices, because how many agents are out there like Kil, right? So he listens to him and keeps pushing it off. Too scared not to provide for all of us, like we’re all his babies.” Mordred's mouth curves unpleasantly. “You know what I think?”

Mordred raises his finger to Arthur’s face in patronizing gesture, and Arthur swats it off.

Mordred shrugs. “I think our Merlin's just scared that his magic tricks are all he knows. _No tricks. Just magic,_ ” he mocks, bobbing his head, and snorts. “With just magic, he’ll be nothing but a freak.”

It’s a slap in a face. Although, deep inside, Arthur thinks he understands Merlin’s fear if what Mordred is saying is true. Finding yourself is a tough journey, and a prime example of it is right here, in front of Arthur. Drunk, scared and babbling, deeply, deeply unhappy with himself.

“So, if it’s not Kilgharrah.” Arthur needs to go back to the most important part. “And obviously not Morgana. Who was doing magic today?"

He remembers Merlin's earlier revelation about the cards incident leaving burns on Elyan's hands -- that it was magic. Arthur understands now that it was meant for Merlin, aiming to take him out of commission for a while by affecting his bread-and-butter as a magician -- his hands. Keeping Merlin in the dark didn't help the matters, and now it looks like these bastards are no longer interested in simple threats.

"Tell me, who's after Merlin and his sister?” Arthur hisses.

Mordred’s eyes are glazing over, clearly losing their focus. Another minute or two and Arthur won’t be able to get a thing out of him.

He gently slaps Mordred’s cheek. “Mordred. Why do you think the offers are related to what happened today? Why did they try to hurt Freya? Does Freya have magic?”

Mordred blinks slowly a few times, his head wobbling. He licks his lip, smiling, clearly already out of it. Jesus Christ. "Arthur, Arthur. No. Freya is colla… collaterer…” He waves a hand in the air.

“Collateral?” Arthur suggests.

Mordred smiles and nods. He hiccups, takes a deep breath, and holds it in for a while, comically bulging his cheeks. Lets it out and hiccups again. “Oh bugger. Kilgharrah... on the phone one time.” Hic. “Came to his office. Wanted a j-j-j… a job.”

Arthur shakes his shoulder. “What about it?”

Another hiccup. “Kil wasn't interested. I’m averrr…” He jabs himself in the chest with a thumb, grimacing. “Average. Nothing.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Arthur dismisses. “You said Kilgharrah was on the phone with someone? Who? What did they say?”

Mordred makes an exasperated noise. “How would I know? I’ve no magic, do I?” He laughs at his own stupid joke. “Kil yelled at someone that he didn’t want their bloody money and they could shove their magic and their threats up their arses. That they wouldn’t make Merlin their call-boy. Merln was _his_. He slammed his phone, but you know what? He was scaaaared. Ha.” Mordred giggles, like it’s funny.

“So you didn’t hear the other person talking? Don’t know if it was a man or a woman?” Arthur presses. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

Mordred sniffles, scowling. “Because! Because... Maybe I liked the idea. Merlin someone’s bitch for once. You don’t know how it feels. You don’t know anything. I had dreams. Merlin’s got everything. And I have nothing.”

Arthur wants to shake the living shit out of Mordred. He clenches his fists. “So you wanted to see someone else’s dreams burn?” he asks, voice ringing with anger. “You thought that was okay?”

Mordred slowly shakes his head.. “I-- No. I was just--”

Arthur pushes his chair back with force. He’s done.

“Arth--” Mordred whimpers. “Wait.” His eyes roll into his head and flops to his side, passed out.

Arthur leaves him right there, just the way he is.

******

 

Arthur almost cries in relief when Leon calls him back next morning. **  
**

He gives Leon a quick rundown of the events, stripping certain details and struggling to piece it together in a plausible-enough story without mentioning the enchanted doll and magic in general. It comes out pretty weak. Arthur expects his friend to mock him and call him on his shit.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Leon says, just as Arthur expected. “We got the guy. Yesterday afternoon. We got Merlin’s stalker.”

“What? Where?”

“Here in LA. He’s in custody.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Absolutely. It’s a hundred percent forensic match with the security footage from the carwash place. He was also the one who snuck into your rooms and sent you the video. Don’t know how he did it, but I’m sure we’ll find out. Sick bastard. He denies everything, of course, but you should’ve seen what he has on his computer, man. There are hundreds of pictures of Merlin, his sister, his assistant, even you. He’s obsessed with Merlin’s life and everyone in it. We also found a bookmark to a website explaining how to make a hex bag and put a spell on someone. Can you believe it? The guy needs serious help, Arthur. But we got him, man. It’s him for sure.”

“Shit.” Arthur thinks for a moment. “How long can you keep him?”

“All he’s done is write some letters.”

“No, there’s also breaking and entering.”

“Right. Forty-eight hours is all they can do for now. You know the drill.”

“Yes, I know it.” Arthur sighs. “Anyway, thanks, Leon.” He says it sincerely, although his gut is churning.

“I’m gonna get my tickets now, right, Arthur?” Leon cajoles. “To Merlin’s big show. Right?”

Arthur sighs. “Right. The tickets. Of course.”

******

They pack in the morning.

Uther refuses to abandon the house, regardless of a threat, which Arthur can’t even articulate to him anymore, but it’s Merlin who surprises him most.

He hovers at the threshold to Arthur’s room. “So, they have the guy?”

“They have the guy,” Arthur says.

“But it’s not over, is it?” Merlin says. “There’s someone else.”

“Why haven’t you told me about the calls you’ve been getting?” Arthur asks, folding and rolling up one of his t-shirts.

“Which calls?” Merlin seems genuinely ignorant.

“Mordred told me. People offering you more money to leave Kilgharrah. Threatening you.”

“Ah, that.” Merlin shrugs. “Do you know how many agents approach me, trying to sneak past Kil? Ask Gwen.”

“And how many of them know about your magic?” Arthur asks.

“No one. There are a lot of charlatans, Arthur. People who think they know what they’re talking about. Salespeople. They know how to use big words, although their vocabulary is limited. Some of them are pretty slick, though.”

“So no one ever told you they know you have magic and they want you to work for them?”

“Yes, of course, I’ve been told that before. Too many times to count.”

Arthur throws his hands up. “How does that not alarm you?”

“Because everyone, and I mean everyone, in that town calls me that. ‘Emrys and his magic’,” Merlin imitates in a deep voice. “‘Emrys put a spell on us.’ ‘The boy has magic.’ I hear it everywhere, Arthur. Sometimes I wish someone said it and actually meant it! I’m sick of hiding. It feels like I’m a bloody fake. All the time. Why can’t I just be me without constantly looking over my shoulder?”

“I don’t know, Merlin.”

This is all so much bigger than Arthur. A whole different universe of something he’s just beginning to comprehend and is still not sure how he fits in there. What his purpose is. He has spent so much time and effort on trying to make things right for Merlin, and none of it is, still. It’s now even worse. He doesn’t even know how to protect Merlin at this point. Why would Merlin even want him around? Maybe Morgana should hire the Hulk. Or the Flash. There are probably one or two of those around. Nothing would surprise Arthur anymore.

Merlin sighs. Picking up a framed picture of a very young Arthur in his military uniform from the dresser, he smiles.

“I know what you’re thinking, Arthur,” he says, his eyes still on the picture.

Arthur glances at him, pausing from putting away his toiletries. “Is that another special talent of yours? Reading people’s minds?”

Merlin chuckles. “No, just yours. You think I don’t know you.” His expression softens and he places the frame back. “I can see right through you because I’ve been paying attention. I’ve been watching you.”

Arthur snorts. “Well, that doesn’t sound creepy at all.”

Merlin laughs. “Maybe a bit,” he agrees.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Merlin.”

“No,” Merlin says. “No. You promised--”

“That was before.”

“Everything is before until it’s after.”

Arthur snorts. “Okay, Yoda.” He pauses. “What do you want me to say? It’s all going to be okay? I don’t know that.”

“I don’t need your assurances. I don’t need you to always make sense out of everything.”

“What do you need, then?”

“I just need you to trust me,” Merlin says quietly.

“And I do,” Arthur says.

“You are a bloody liar, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says. “A bad one.”

Arthur zips up his packed duffel bag and turns to Merlin. “You know, I’ve been paying attention, too. You think I’m scared of you, and that’s bullshit. You and your…” He waves in Merlin’s direction, stumbling for words he needs. “...eyes.”

“What?” Merlin asks. “My eyes what?”

“All glowy!” Arthur blurts out. “You think that throws me off?”

Merlin walks up to Arthur, smiling. “Are you saying it doesn’t?”

Arthur swallows and shakes his head hard. “I actually kinda like that.”

Merlin’s smile grows wider. “Kinda?” he asks softly.

“It’s kinda hot,” Arthur admits, and adds quickly, “But it doesn’t mean…”

“Oh, do shut up,” Merlin says and kisses him.

Arthur doesn’t have the strength to resist.

******

They order a cab, deciding to take the first available flight to LA from the local airport, seeing no point in torturing themselves on a long-ass drive again with a kid who clearly doesn’t tolerate long-ass distances in the car well. Merlin’s attitude has changed, he seems almost happy to leave, because, _Sod it, Arthur, I won't bend over and take it from some arseholes. Let’s go home._

Arthur actually agrees.

In the cab, Merlin’s eyes flashing gold often, barely concealing it from the driver. Arthur finds that he loves this headstrong, risk-taking, magic Merlin, although they do have to talk about him being a little more careful once they’re home.

Speaking of home…

The house is not right for them anymore and Merlin agrees. They’re going to find something more compact, less flashy, and a bit more manageable in terms of security. They don’t really need twelve bedrooms, do they? Personally, Arthur’s happy with one. With Merlin in it.

Freya’s calmer, quieter, and in a better mood than he’s seen her in weeks, back to the playful, good-natured child she was on the day he met her. All she can explain about the incident is that someone kept calling her and calling her to come into the lake. She went, and that’s all she remembers. It comes as no surprise to anyone when the girl confesses that she was snooping around in Merlin’s room when she found something tucked between the bedframe and the mattress. It didn’t really look like a doll at the time, but Freya was bored and she needed a friend. So she made one.

Merlin actually punches a wall when he hears this from Gwen.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” is all Gwen can offer him. “I probably should’ve noticed something.”

“Just stop it,” Merlin shouts. “They targeted me. Me! How would have you know? I didn’t know, and I actually have magic!”

“I think she should be around kids more, though,” Gwen suggests carefully. “I know how worried we are that she’ll tell someone about you. Or that someone could try to get you through her. But she’s a child, Merlin. We can't raise her in fear, and she should be allowed to interact with her peers.”

Fright clouds Merlin’s expression when she says it, and Arthur understands his fear. Who can guarantee Freya’s safety while there’s someone still out there wishing them harm?

“He’ll think about it,” Arthur speaks for Merlin, ignoring the dirty look he shoots him.

“Don’t even say it,” he tells Merlin later when they’re alone in the kitchen and Merlin corners him against the fridge.

“What?” Merlin asks.

“I know she’s your sister and your full responsibility,” Arthur levels with him. “But occasionally, you have to think before you speak, and that was one of those moments.”

Merlin scoffs. “I have, if you’d really like to know.”

“And?”

“I’m enrolling her in school.”

Arthur smiles. “Good. Percy will be her permanent assignment then.”

Merlin presses into Arthur, leg nudging Arthur’s knees apart. “You forget, I’m the boss here, Arthur.”

He mouths at Arthur’s throat, brushes his nose up his chin, inhaling, and finds Arthur’s bottom lip, swiping his tongue over it before sucking it into his mouth. Arthur’s legs turn into jelly, and he’s hard, so hard, bucking into Merlin’s crotch, seeking at least some friction. Through the fog of his lust-ridden brain, he hears footsteps and Gwen coughing pointedly. They come apart instantly. Blinking and blushing, Arthur steps behind the kitchen table, clearing his throat. Merlin’s smirking at him, not looking at all like he was in the middle of being debauched before being cockblocked by his own assistant.

This is the furthest they’ve gone since they’ve returned a few days ago; Merlin’s teasing will probably be the death of Arthur, although he’s determined not to rush things. There are currently more important things to worry about on top of the fact that Merlin is still technically his client. Arthur’s already crossed too many boundaries in this relationship.  

Freya walks in. She looks at them, then at Gwen. Making big, innocent eyes, she asks, “What? I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

“Hey, Frey?” Merlin says, chuckling. “Remember how I said we were going to find a good school for you?”

Freya grins and nods.

“How about we tour a few?” Merlin asks. “See which one you like better?”

“Really?” Freya asks.

“Really.” He takes her hand. “Wanna take a look at their websites?”

Freya practically skips out of the kitchen, dragging Merlin with her.

“What about Mordred?” Arthur hears her ask in the hallway. “When’s he coming back?”

“Well, Mordred’s--”

Arthur doesn’t hear the rest and he doesn’t need to. No matter what explanation Merlin offers, Arthur’s the only one who knows the whole truth. And the truth is the minute they’d landed in LAX, he pulled aside Mordred, who looked like death warmed over after the previous night of heavy drinking.

“Mordred, I don't think--”

“I know,” Mordred interrupts. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I’ll get my things and be out of there tomorrow morning. I’ll find some excuse for Merlin, too.”

Arthur searched Mordred’s expression, looking for signs of him being insincere, playing a victim,  and saw none. Mordred really meant it. Arthur nodded. “If you need money...”

Mordred scoffed. “I don’t need American dollars where I’m going.”

“Going back to London, then?” Arthur asked.

“Going back to London,” Mordred echoed.

Still, Arthur wanted to make sure Mordred knew what he was doing. “Anyone there waiting for you?”

Mordred paused for a beat. “I hope so.”

“Who?”

Mordred smiled. “Me.”

 

******

 

Merlin wanders into Arthur’s office and plops down, rubbing his eyes. “I think I know what it was.”

“What was what?” Arthur asks.

“The doll-thing that enchanted Freya. I spoke with Gaius, too. He gave me an idea since he knows medicinal herbs well.”

“That thing didn’t look a medicinal herb to me,” Arthur comments.

“Well, it wasn’t, but it can be, in the right hands,” Merlin says. “It’s a variation of mandrake root. The leaves can be used as a cooling agent. Crushed, the root can serve as an anesthetic.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “But if _not_ in the right hands…”

Merlin sighs. “In the wrong hands, it causes aggression and hallucinations to the person in its possession. Within a short period of time, it can drive them completely mad.”

“And Freya was in constant contact with it. For months.”

Merlin groans. “I know. I think the only reason she didn’t go completely bonkers was because she’s still a child. So it affected her mood more.”

“So, you think hallucinations sent her into the lake?”

“Yeah, I do.”

It’s a small consolation, but having some answers provides Arthur at least some relief. There’s no way to find out who had actually planted the enchantment in Merlin’s room. It happened before Arthur was hired, when there was absolutely no security in place, too many people in and out, and Merlin too oblivious to be concerned about it. Arthur still spends hours upon hours replaying months’ worth of the security footage, trying to find the hole in security that had allowed the original stalker to come to the house and record the creepy video he sent to Merlin.

And when he finds the hole, he does a small victory dance. At least he’s still got some skill.

 

*******

**  
**

“Merlin!” Kilgharrah exclaims, walking from behind his desk. He furrows his bushy brows at Arthur. “Why are you here? I accepted your resignation. You’re released from my employment.”

“Is that why you haven't accepted my calls?” Arthur demands. “I don't recall you contacting me for my exit interview. And where's my last paycheck?”

“Yes, yes.” The old bastard waves him off. “It's in the mail. Somewhere.”

“Sod it, you both,” Merlin says. “I hired him back. It's a partnership now. Arthur and me.”

“You can't do that.” Kilgharrah flaps his arms. “You’re under contract.”

“This is a free country. I can have as many LLCs in my personal name as I bloody want,” Merlin deadpans.

Arthur doesn’t know what he’s feeling more. Amusement with Merlin so thoroughly embracing the American-dream culture, pride in his ability to reduce his usually unflappable agent to babbling, or exasperation that he acted on Arthur’s behalf without talking to him first. Of course, Merlin could be pulling a stunt here, but man does it work on Kilgharrah. It’s a pleasure to witness.  

“Yes, you can,” Kilgharrah agrees once he recovers. “But since your professional career is in my hands, I’d rather be informed of personal decisions that may affect your professional growth.”

Merlin checks his nails. “That’s a lot of big words.”

“Not just.” Kilgharrah raises his finger. “Please sit. I have big news for you.”

Merlin glances at Arthur. Arthur shrugs and they both sit down.

“Are you sure, Merlin?” Kilgharrah darts his eyes at Arthur. “This is rather a private--”

“He stays,” Merlin interrupts him. “Go on.”

The old man hesitates briefly, pursing his lips, and then he’s all pleasantness again. “Yes, of course.” He retrieves a folder from his desk and drops it in front of Merlin with a flourish. “Here it is.”

Merlin frowns, opening the folder. “What’s this?”

“A new, better, shinier contract. Bigger venues, higher percentages. More perks. The world is at your feet, Merlin.”

“As long as he’s chained to you?” Arthur asks.

Kilgharrah ignores him. “Of course, you’ll need time to read it over. Check with your lawyer. I understand. But I’d like to assure you the terms I’m offering are the best in town. Check with Morgana, if you’d like.”

“What happened to the old contract?” Merlin asks.

Kilgharrah shrugs. “I admit, it had some issues. This is me proactively fixing them.”

“May I see the old one?” Arthur asks Merlin.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate, young man,” Kilgharrah scolds him. “You should be thankful I let you be here.”

“Let him see,” Merlin says. “I know you have a copy somewhere.”

Kilgharrah sighs and brandishes another folder.

Arthur scans both and pushes them to Merlin. “I see a big difference.”

Merlin looks at him, waiting.

“The dates,” Arthur says. “He’s strapping you in for another five years, Merlin. Even my assignments have never been more than eighteen months.”

“You’re comparing oranges to apples, Arthur,” Kilgharrah says. “In this business, everyone wants a longer contract, not a shorter one, when the terms are good.”

“The old man’s right,” Merlin says. He turns to Kilgharrah. “Why are you doing this now? The old contract is still good for another year and I wasn’t asking for more money. I wouldn't do that to you.”

Arthur makes a protesting noise, but Merlin doesn’t look at him.

“I want you protected,” the agent says after a hesitation.

“So you’re clearly saying he’s not protected now,” Arthur says. “I wonder what makes you say that. I’m here. Isn’t that all he needs to be safe?”

Kilgharrah turns his sharp gaze to him. “This is not just about booking the best shows and having the most experienced bodyguard. Merlin’s talent is unique. He’s different, and therefore more desirable, and more vulnerable.”

“Why don’t you just say it, Kilgharrah?” Merlin says, lowering his voice. “I have magic. I use magic in my shows with your permission and guidance. That’s my talent in your view, isn’t it?”

Kilgharrah darts a glance at Arthur and straightens up. “So, he knows.”

Merlin nods. “He knows. He knows a lot more than that.”

The old man taps his fingers, considering them both before speaking again. “Well, that’s actually good. Makes things easier.”

“For you?” Merlin asks, hostility in his tone.

“For all of us. If your bodyguard knows now what makes you special, we don’t have to hide from him.”

“I don’t want to hide from anyone,” Merlin says, enunciating every word. “How about you put that in the contract? Then I’ll sign it.”

“Merlin,” Arthur grunts, warning him from making a stupid decision.

Kilgharrah purses his lips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Merlin chuckles. “Yeah, you never think it’s a good idea. You know it’s not about money for me. You know it’s not big fame I’m after. All I want is to understand my magic better, see what I can really do with it. Not for tricks. Not to dupe people.” Merlin gets to his feet and looms over the desk, bringing his face to Kilgharrah’s. “I. Have. Magic. And I want to use it for something good. Get me _that_ contract!”

Merlin’s eyes burn gold, and even from a few feet away, Arthur can feel the heat, the intensity of the magic emanating from Merlin, and he can see now how much magnificence Merlin is capable of, if only he could spread his magic in full power. And that -- the fact that someone is forcefully holding back Merlin’s awe-inspiring abilities for their personal gain because they’re scared -- that makes Arthur want to rip the world apart.  

Kilgharrah sits back, mouth open, but no sound comes out.

“So, I take it we have a showstopper here,” Arthur announces to Kilgharrah. He stands. “We better be going.”

He takes Merlin’s hand in his, and Merlin flinches at first, still a little dazed by his own magic.

“Do you want to go?” Arthur asks him.

Merlin blinks a faraway look off his face and smiles. “Yes.”

“You have the biggest show of your career coming, Merlin!” Kilgharrah yells when they’re already in the hallway. “Then the Emmys. Who’ll represent you? You need me!”

“I don’t think so!” Merlin shouts back as they walk away.

Kilgharrah rushes to the door, shaking his fist at Merlin’s back. “You’ll be in breach of your contract!”

Merlin slowly turns around, eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah?” Gold briefly colors his irises and he snaps his fingers, like he does during his shows to distract the audience from the actual act. “What contract?”

It takes a second for Kilgharrah to comprehend the meaning of what’s just happened. He runs back into the office and a few seconds later, they hear Kilgharrah’s angry cries. “What did you do, Merlin? How dare you?”

Merlin looks at stunned Arthur and grins, very proud of himself. “Now that was the trick of the century, don’t you think?”

Arthur just shakes his head and laughs.

******

“How does it feel to be a free man again, Merlin?” Arthur asks as they walk out of a bakery.

Merlin, currently stuffing his face with donuts, answers with his mouth full. “Smashing.”

“It was a pretty dumb move, if you ask me,” Arthur argues, hiding a smile.

Merlin chokes a little. He stops walking. “It was not!” His expression is of righteous indignation.

“Absolutely was. Kilgharrah was right -- you need representation. Isn’t your show coming up? And the Emmys next month?”

Merlin nudges his shoulder and grins. “You're keeping tabs, aren’t you?”

Arthur shrugs. “So? It’s part of my job. Speaking of which. You said something to Kilgharrah about new business. We’re in a partnership now?”

Merlin avoids Arthur’s gaze and starts shuffling his feet. “Yeah. So?”

“Did you forge my signature, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks. If Merlin’s not having him on, he must have.

Merlin looks at him, lifting his brows. “Is that all you worry about?”

“Well,” Arthur says, “that’s not how you begin a beautiful relationship, is it?”

Merlin throws his head back and laughs. “Are you trying to quote Casablanca, Arthur? You've just completely botched the most beautiful line in the film.”

Arthur huffs. “Whatever. Still, you should've told me.”

“You wouldn't have agreed to it.”

“Of course I wouldn't have.”

“And where would that leave me?” Merlin glances at him playfully. “Walking around with permanently blue balls? It's become a problem for me.”

Arthur turns his head to Merlin, trying not to smile. ”You know, it's not good business practice to make important decisions when your brain is lacking blood circulation.”

“Then maybe you should do something about it.”

Arthur is the one who pulls Merlin in and kisses his mouth, sweet from powdered sugar and the newness of it -- of having Merlin all to himself and not giving a fuck if someone sees. Merlin opens into the kiss with a groan, his hands everywhere, his hips grinding into Arthur, sending heat all over him. They get too handsy, earn a few catcalls, and Arthur has to stop their make-out session before he falls completely apart in the middle of the busy street and does to Merlin something too indecent. It’s a close call.

“Still,” Arthur says when his brain cells power up again. He goes back to eating his own donut. In a more civilized manner than Merlin, of course. “We should’ve asked Kilgharrah about the threats. We still don’t know who was trying to enchant you. He obviously knew more than he cared to share.”

Merlin loses his giddiness. He sighs. “I thought about it. And I figured that it didn’t matter.”

Arthur looks at him in disbelief. “What? How could you say that?”

“There’s always going to be a reason to be scared of someone or something. I didn’t get to this place in my life being afraid. They can threaten me. I’m sure they’ll try again. I don’t care. It’s not going to stop me from doing what I love to do. I’m not saying this is the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t guarantee you that I’ll always do the smart thing. But don’t you see? That’s what makes life great. That’s where magic is. If you don’t take risks, you never win.”

Arthur looks at him for a long moment and starts smiling.

“What?” Merlin asks, a little winded after a long, beautiful tirade. He is beautiful. Inside and out. No one can convince Arthur otherwise.

“I told you, Merlin,” he says, trying not to sound like a schoolgirl with a crush. “You’re too clever for me.”

Merlin finds Arthur’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Still gonna stick around, though, right? I still need protection, you know. It’s nutters how much protection we’re both going to need.” He wiggles his brows.

It’s a great pun, Arthur agrees, seeing how it gets him all hot and bothered in seconds. “Fuck, Merlin,” he says, laughing. “You’ll be the death of me.”

 

******

 

“So, someone’s made a mess out of things,” Morgana says, bending down to air-kiss Merlin, who’s nervous as hell, but would never show it on the day of a performance. **  
**

He’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, hands relaxed on his lap, and his eyes closed.

He opens his eyes. "Kil wouldn't stop whining?”

Merlin spent the last two weeks in a mad dash of preparations for his show. More interviews, more photo sessions, more radio appearances. Often several in one morning. Elyan saved the day several times, cutting through crazy LA traffic and delivering Merlin to his appointments right on time. For the rest of it, Merlin had practiced and practiced and practiced, as if his life depended on it. Arthur wonders if maybe it does, if maybe this time will be the moment when Merlin will be attacked and Arthur’s worst fears will become a reality. Arthur doesn’t have any special powers. What he has is a keen eye, good instincts, fast legs, and a bone-deep love for the man who told him he wasn’t afraid to live his life to the fullest. Merlin is doing it, and now it’s Arthur’s turn to make sure his precious life didn’t end prematurely.

“Kil is really mad at you,” Morgana agrees. “But he had it coming. I told him many times that he can only push you so far. I’m not surprised you snapped, Merlin.”

Morgana has really stepped up these past weeks, seeming a lot less upset at Merlin for the PR nightmare he’s cost her by becoming a free-agent. Arthur was grateful to his sister.

“You still need to find another agent, if you’re so adamant about not forgiving Kilgharrah. He’s not the worst there is, you know. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Merlin sighs. “He lied and manipulated me. He controlled me.”

Morgana walks up to Merlin and crouches in front of him. “Honey, you’re in Hollywood. Everyone lies, manipulates, and is a control freak. Yes, don’t look at me like that, me too.”

Merlin sits up. “Oh, that’s not why I’m looking at you. You’re blocking Arthur from my line of vision. I hate that.”

Arthur snorts. Morgana laughs, not offended in the slightest.

“Well, now that we know how much we all love each other,” she says. “I want to ask you again. Do you really want to go out there tonight? I’m worried, Merlin. There are people, you understand that by now, don’t you, that would do anything for you to never become your own person with magic. Ever. You’re ruining a huge business for them.”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Merlin tells her mildly.

Morgana chuckles. “All right, and a little bit for me. Certainly for Kilgharrah."

"Who still claims he has no idea who was trying to buy Merlin off of him?" Arthur says. And yes, he did go back to the old man and tried to push him. 

"In his own way, he really truly wants to protect Merlin. Some others, however..." Morgana looks back at Merlin. "You’ve already got a taste of it.”

“No,” Merlin says, his gaze on Morgana firm. “I won’t change my mind. I’m doing this.”

Morgana hums. “That’s the spirit.” She pats his arm. “Then how about you go out there and kill it?”

There’s a brief panic in Merlin’s eyes when he stands up and fixes his performance shirt and his vest. He sends a quizzical look to Arthur. The truth is, no matter how much effort he’d spend on sweeping the place, if someone decides to use magic against Merlin, there’s not much that can be done in advance to prevent it from happening. Even Merlin can’t. Both Merlin and Arthur know it. Arthur also knows that no matter the threat, Merlin would never refuse this performance.

Arthur tilts his head towards Merlin in assurance. He’ll be there.

“It’s all checked, Merlin,” he says. “Percy is here. Everything’s in place.” He steps closer to Merlin. “Are you ready?”

Merlin takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales. Nodding his head he says, “I’m ready.”

******

The venue is an open air theater and there are hundreds of people in attendance. Arthur has no idea what Merlin has prepared for this particular performance, and Merlin refused to talk about it, but Arthur suspects that since Merlin’s no longer under a soul-binding contract, it’s going to be something truly special.

“Ten-minute call!” A girl pokes her head into the room. “Mr. Emrys. Ten minutes.”

Merlin nods. “Thank you.”

Arthur glances at Morgana and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m gonna do one last check. Percy will stand in.”

Outside the room, it’s madness with people running around, issuing or following instructions. He peeks outside where the audience still wandering around. The front of the theater is a big standing room only and he sees a few familiar faces at the front. Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, Leon and his girlfriend. His eyes wander higher, to the balconies. Kilgharrah is on the first row on the left, talking to none other than Alator, and Arthur clenches his teeth, at the two people who did nothing but use Merlin.

When he turns around, ready to join Merlin again, Arthur bumps into someone. “Excuse me,” he says and recognizes the person. “Ms. Sid.” He nods in greeting.

Sophia’s in a black pantsuit and her usual librarian glasses, and she looks up from her tablet briefly. She has green eyes, Arthur notices, freckles peppering her nose, visible even under the heavy makeup. They must be giving her a lot of grief if she tries so hard to cover them.

“Hello,” she says, indifferently. And then looks up at him again, her eyes narrowing. “You’re..” She snaps her fingers a few times as if trying to remember something.

“Arthur Pendragon,” he supplies helpfully. “I see you’re covering every event in town.”

She shrugs. “I’m very good. Everyone wants me.”

“Did Morgana hire you?” Arthur asks.

Sophia frowns. “Who?” She follows Arthur’s gaze as he’s looking up at the balcony where Morgana is walking in. “Ah. Yes. Yes. The iron lady.”

Arthur laughs. “Is that what they call her?”

Sophia smiles pleasantly. “Not me, of course.”

“No, of course,” Arthur agrees and hears a call, “Two minutes!”

Sophia looks down at her tablet, losing interest in Arthur. He has to go anyway.

“Well, good luck out there.” He waves. “In whatever it is you have to do tonight.”

He runs towards Merlin’s room not waiting for Sophia to respond.

******

Sounds of music fill the theater, opening the show, and Arthur gestures to Percy on the opposite side of the stage to pay attention. Percy nods, grinning. Someone’s having too much fun for such a serious occasion.

Arthur moves around, heart in his throat and hating it, when Merlin walks out. He’s greeted with a long, warm applause and Merlin’s smile is as warm as it’s brilliant. Arthur relaxes a little. This is it, this is Merlin’s show. This is his time.

He begins with a simple routine of a waterfall cascading down the middle of the stage, seemingly out of nowhere. There are flower crowns appearing on people’s heads in the crowd, chirping birds making circles over the audience. It’s simple, but creates a festive mood. The first act is followed by the clap of a thunderstorm in the clear sky and a warm shower that lasts for long enough for the crowd to realize that it’s real, it’s raining. Merlin offers a few jokes and even asks if anyone needed an umbrella, which he conjures up out of thin air immediately, offering it to someone standing in the front row. But before the audience knows it, the rain is over, with literally snap of Merlin’s fingers, which leaves everyone blinking in bewilderment.

Merlin laughs. He’s loving it, so clearly and wholeheartedly, Arthur’s ready to move mountains so this magical man can do this: bring joy and _be_ joy for everyone. Now he understands what everyone was saying, and understands what Merlin always said. Merlin is magic. Magic is real. And it lives in everyone. What Merlin is doing is bringing it out. This is his true calling. This is what he’s destined to do.

A young woman, holding a tablet and wearing an earpiece, taps Arthur on the shoulder. “Sir. You can’t stand here. The audience can see you. You have to move to the back.”

Arthur blinks. “But… “ He looks back at the stage where Merlin is moving and making jokes while rolling up his sleeves. Arthur knows what that means. More serious magic is coming.

“I’m with Merlin Emrys,” he explains. “His protection.”

The woman frowns. “Yes, but you shouldn’t be there. Step back. Or I’ll have to call the security.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’m the security. You understand? I’m head of Merlin Emrys' security. Who are you, by the way?”

“I’m Eira Richards. I’m the organizer.”

Arthur frowns. “What about Sophia Sid? I thought she was the organizer. Or is she just helping you today?”

“Who?” Eira doesn’t seem to pay much attention to Arthur as she touches her earpiece and murmurs something. “I don’t know any Sophia Sid. Sir, this is your last warning. Please step back. You can’t be here.”

Arthur’s vision goes askew. “You don’t know Sophia Sid?” He doesn’t know why he’s trying so desperately make something real when it can’t be. “Never mind,” he says and reaches for his phone in his pocket.

Eira hisses and grabs his arm, pulling him. Arthur stumbles a few steps back under her strong grip. She nods to someone. “He’s not being cooperative. He says… If you’re the head of Mr. Emrys’s security, like you say, where’s your badge?” she asks. “What’s your name again?”

“I’m Arthur Pendragon.” He pats himself. “Shit. One second…” He freezes. Sophia bumped into him earlier. The witch took his security ID.  

“Okay, this is it. You’re going! Guys, please escort this gentleman out of the theater.”

“No, no, no, no,” Arthur starts to protest, because this can’t be happening. “Percy!”

Four big hands grab him, turning him around, and on pure instinct, he jabs one guy in the eye and punches the other in the gut. It’s quick and unexpected, and Arthur knows speed is his only advantage, because the two security men have a couple of hundreds of pounds on him.

“Someone stole my ID. I’m Arthur Pendragon, Merlin Emrys’s protection, and I’m not going anywhere!”

This is the weakest argument he could ever offer during a highly publicized event that’s being televised. If he were the organizer Arthur would kick himself out so fast, his head would spin -- and this is still a possibility if he doesn’t think on his feet.

“Look,” he reasons with Eira quickly, while the two guys are recovering. “See that girl?” He points carefully at Sophia’s head standing by the side of the open area, while the crowd is flocked closer the stage, and she’s looking directly at Merlin. “She shouldn’t be here. She told me she was doing your job. She’s an impostor.”

Eira's harsh look on her face tells him she doesn't believe him.

Arthur tires a different argument, raising his palm to stop the two guys from going after him again. “Do you know Morgana Pendragon? She’s been all over this event for months.”

Eira nods.

“I’m sure you have her number somewhere. She’s sitting right there. Send someone for her. She’s my sister. She’ll confirm my identity.”

Eira considers Arthur for a moment. “Fine. Stay right here.” She taps her earpiece and takes a step aside.

Arthur peers over the curtain to see what Merlin’s doing, at the same time, he notices that Sophia is no longer at her previous post. Searching the audience, he finds her creeping a few rows closer to the stage, among the crowd, just like she's been creeping around Merlin's life, closing in on him for months.

There’s something happening on the stage that has entire audience completely silent. Then the audience roars with laughter. Arthur can’t see what Merlin’s doing, but he knows where he’s standing on the stage, judging by the direction of Sophia’s unblinking stare. The audience makes a collective, loud sigh of awe mixed with confusion. Arthur blinks, looking around, and finds that the set curtains have vanished.

More than that, the entire building, the balconies, arches, and stairs -- the whole theater has gone transparent, see-through -- or so it seems. They can see other buildings, traffic of cars and people on the streets outside, but hear no sound. The floor under their feet is clear, but still feels solid like ice.

“Uh-oh, what have I done?” Merlin asks the audience playfully. It looks like he’s floating on air.  He looks down. “Where did everything go?”

Merlin squats and drops a hand past his feet. It doesn’t meet any resistance. He jumps up and down. There’s no sound. The crowd murmurs, looking at each other. Patrons on the balconies look comically uncomfortable, as if floating in air. Merlin looks up. “I wouldn’t jump down if I were you,” he suggests. Everyone laughs.

“So, what do you think, trick or magic?” he asks the audience and presses a hand to his ear.

“Magic!” the crowd chants.

Merlin nods, pleased, and turns around, waving at Arthur.

“Oh, hello there! Looking good!” He shows Arthur two thumbs up, grinning, but before Arthur can respond, Merlin’s eyes flash gold and everything’s slowly assumes it’s shape and texture again, going back to normal: the curtains, the structure, and the stage floor.

The crowd goes wild, giving Merlin an ovation. Merlin presses his palm together, bowing. “Thank you. Thank you.

“That was my boyfriend over there. Arthur,” he shares, to Arthur’s complete astonishment when it quiets down a little. “Isn’t he cute?”

The crowd cheers and wolf-whistles again.

“That was freaky, but soooo awesome,” one of the security guards breathes beside Arthur. “I wanna see that again!”

“So, are you his head of security or are you his boyfriend?” the other security guy asks, smirking.

Arthur sighs. Only Merlin could put him on the spot like that in front of millions of people. Arthur should care about it, about his privacy and personal boundaries, but this is something he’s already learned about Merlin. When Merlin’s in -- he’s all in, and when he’s out -- he’s all out. Magic, big gay love, his bodyguard -- it doesn’t matter -- Merlin’s proud of who he is, and isn’t afraid to show it.

“I guess, I’m both?” Arthur says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, you’re one lucky dog.” The first security guard grins. “I wish I had a boyfriend like that. I’d put a ring on it.”

The other security guard laughs.

“What?” the first asks. “I’m serious.”

Arthur stops listening. There’s a change on stage, and he’s temporarily distracted by Merlin’s magic again. Merlin’s drawing an image in the darkened sky with his finger -- a fiery dragon, its growing shape made out of myriad sparks, like a brand new constellation magicked by Merlin especially for this occasion, a gift to the world. The dragon is giant, covering the entire perimeter of the theater above everyone’s heads, blinking down warmly at the amazed people beneath it. Every one of them is standing with their heads turned up to the sky and mouths open in awe. Arthur doesn’t know how many more magic numbers Merlin still has up his sleeve, but he thinks that if Merlin finished with this image, that would be a perfect ending.

As soon as everyone’s eyes have adjusted to the magnificent vision, the dragon starts to shift, legs and jaw moving. The dragon turns, spreading its expansive wings over the theater, no longer a static constellation, but a fully-formed flying creature. It flaps its wings silently, creating an illusion of moving over the speechless audience. There's only one person in the crowd who isn’t looking up at sky, her head turned towards Merlin himself.

Sophia’s eyes are glowing as she watches the stage. They’re nothing like Merlin’s -- crimson red, beautiful and frightening. Their very color tells Arthur that Sophia’s magic is nothing like Merlin’s.

Arthur’s in motion the moment Sophia brings her arms up, palms pointed at the dragon.

The dragon flounders, its contours crumpling, sparks gathering together to form a new creation. The shape solidifies and it's unmistakable -- an enormous ball of fire.

Ignoring the security guards, grappling at Arthur to stop him, Arthur rolls onto the stage, with a, “Merlin, watch out!” His finger is on the trigger of his drawn gun, ready; adrenaline pumping in his veins blocks the pain of the disturbed old wound echoing in his shoulder.   

Merlin is at the center stage, his head snapped up. Shaking in concentration, eyes glowing brilliant gold, he’s in a stance, mimicking Sophia’s.

Sophia sweeps her arms and as she does, a ball of fire, as if at her command, jerks down dangerously low above the gasping crowd.

Merlin groans to Sophia, “No. It’s _my_ magic. You can’t touch it!”

Sophia shrieks, “You shouldn’t have been so quick on sharing it then! You've been warned enough!”

She flicks her wrists, and the ball changes its path. Instead of releasing itself on crowd beneath, it hurls in Merlin’s direction.

Arthur hears a scream, a desperate call of Merlin’s name. A voice familiar, but too high to his ears, almost unrecognizable as his own. His finger pulls, and pulls, and pulls. He feels a blow in the chest that robs him of breath. His lungs hurt, wheezing, greedy for air. His skin burns everywhere, but not from heat. It’s as if he’s been gouged by a million of pieces of cold glass. “Merlin,” he wants to shout. “Merlin, I”m here.” But all that comes out of his throat is a gurgling sound. He tries to swallow, hating the metallic taste, something that he remembers from his previous life, when he was just a soldier, and not Merlin’s protector.

There’s another scream, shrill and furious, of an animal dying in agony, and then -- there’s silence.

**  
**

**One Month Later**

**  
  
**

“Arthur, could you please hurry up?” Gwen yells. “It’s starting!”

Arthur checks on Merlin in their room once again. “Are you sure you don’t want to come join us?” he asks him.

Merlin lifts his head from a book. “No. But you go. Tell me all about it later.”

Arthur lingers at the door, watching his boyfriend, who’s been staring at the same page with a diagram on it for an hour now. He makes a decision and steps back into the room, closing the door.

Merlin looks at Arthur again, surprised. “What’s happened?”

Arthur plops himself on the bed. “I don’t feel good.”

Merlin frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Hurts, right here.” He waves in general direction of his chest and stomach.

Merlin stands up, abandoning the book.

“And here.” Arthur gestures lower, much lower. “Hurts everywhere, and I think the only cure is for you to kiss it better.”

Merlin kneels in front of Arthur, huffs a laugh. “You git. You scared me.”

“Well, at some point, we’ll get even. You have a lot of kissing up to do.”

Arthur lies down on the bed and looks at Merlin expectantly. Merlin lies next to him, placing a hand on Arthur’s stomach carefully.

“It’s been a month, Arthur. You’re mostly healed.”

Arthur turns to the side to face Merlin propping his head on his hand. He makes a cute face. “Yeah, but you should check it anyway.”

He kisses Merlin softly on the mouth and Merlin inhales, leaning in, opening up to Arthur right away. Presses into him with his entire body.

“I don’t care if I don’t win an Emmy,” Merlin mutters after a while. “Won’t win anyway.”

“Maybe not, maybe next time. Leave it to Morgana; she’ll pull you through this, Merlin. You know what’s better than an Emmy? Who’ll forget the time when you saved like five hundred people?"

“And you took a fall while bringing down a witch.”

“It’s my job, Merlin. I’m the protector.” Arthur pushes Merlin onto his back and covers him, shoulder to hip, knees touching. “I gotcha, kid,” he whispers. “Here’s looking at you.”

**The End**

**  
**


End file.
